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Her Tragic Fate 


BY 

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ, 

Author of “Quo Vadis,” “The New Soldier,” “Where 
Worlds Meet,” “So Runs the World,” etc., etc. 


^ TRANSLATED BY 

J.r'CHRISTIAN BAY. 



NEW YORK : 
HURST & COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS. 


VZs 



We. 

£ 


COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY 

F. Tennyson Neely 

IN THE UNITED STATES AND GREAT BRITAIN. 
COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY 

Hurst & Company. 


5ID8/S' 




INTRODUCTION. 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 

I once read a short story, in which a Slav 
author had all the lilies and bells in a forest 
bending toward each other, whispering and 
resounding softly the words: “Glory! Glory! 
Glory!” until the whole forest and then the 
whole world repeated the song of flowers. 

Such is to-day the fate of the author of the 
pow^erful historical trilogy: “With Fire and 
Sword,” “The Deluge” and “Pan Michael,” 
preceded by short stories, “Lillian Morris,’* 
“Yanko the Musician,” “After Bread,” 
“Hania,” “Let Us Follow Him,” followed by 
two problem novels, “Without Dogma,” and 
“Children of the Soil,” and crowned by a 


6 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


masterpiece of an incomparable artistic beauty, 
‘‘Quo Vadis.” Eleven good books adopted 
from the Polish language and set into circula- 
tion are of great importance for the English- 
reading people — just now I am emphasizing 
only this — because these books are written in 
the most beautiful language ever written by 
any Polish author! Eleven books of masterly, 
personal, and simple prose! Eleven good 
books given to the circulation and received not 
only with admiration but with gratitude — 
books where there are more or less good or 
sincere pages, but where there is not one on 
which original humor, nobleness, charm, some 
comforting thoughts, some elevated senti- 
ments do not shine. Some other author would 
perhaps have stopped after producing “Quo 
Vadis,’’ without any doubt the best of Sienkie- 
wicz’s books. But Sienkiewicz looks into the 
future and cares more about works which he is 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 7 

going to write, than about those which we 
have already in our libraries, and he renews 
his talents, searching, perhaps unknowingly, 
for new themes and tendencies. 

When one knows how to read a book, then 
from its pages the author’s face looks out on 
him, a face not material, but just the same 
full of life. Sienkiewicz’s face, looking on us 
from his books, is not always the same; it 
changes, and in his last book C'Quo Vadis”) 
it is quite different, almost new. 

^here are some people who throw down a 
book after having read it, as one leaves a bot- 
tle after having drank the wine from i^ 
^here are others who read books with a pencil 
in their hands, and they mark the most strik- 
ing passage^ ^fterward, in the hours of rest, 
in the moments when one needs a stimulant 
from within and one searches for harmony, 
sympathy of a thing apparently so dead and 


8 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


Strange as a book is, they come back to the 
marked passages, to their own thoughts, more 
comprehensible since an author expressed 
them; to their own sentiments, stronger and 
more natural since they found them in some- 
body else’s word^ ^ecause ofttimes it seems 
to us — the common readers — that there is no 
difference between our interior world and the 
horizon of great authors, and we flatter our- 
selves by believing that we are only less dar- 
ing, less brave than are thinkers and poets, 
that some interior lack of courage stopped us 
from having formulated our impressions. And 
in this sentiment there is a great deal of trutl^ 
But while this expression of our thoughts 
seems to us to be a daring, to the others it is 
a need; they even do not suspect how much 
they are daring and new. They must, accord- 
ing to the words of a poet, “Spin out the love, 
as the silkworm spins its web.^’ That is their 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


9 


capital distinction from common mortals; we 
recognize them by it at once; and that is the 
reason we put them above the common level. 
On the pages of their books we find not the 
traces of the accidental, deeper penetrating 
into the life or more refined feelings, but the 
whole harvest of thoughts, impressions, dispo- 
sitions, written skilfully, because studied deep- 
ly. We also leave something on these pages. 
Some people dry flowers on them, the others 
preserve reminiscences. In every one of Sien- 
kiewicz’s volumes people will deposit a great 
many personal impressions, part of their souls; 
in every one they will find them again after 
many years. 

There are three periods in Sienkiewicz’s lit- 
erary life. In the first he wrote short stories, 
which are masterpieces of grace and ingenuity 
— at least some of them. In those stories the 
reader will meet frequent thoughts about gen- 


10 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


eral problems, deep observations of life — and 
notwithstanding his idealism, very truthful 
about spiritual moods, expressed with an easy 
and sincere hand. Speaking about Sienkie- 
wicz’s works, no matter how small it may be, 
one has always the feeling that one speaks 
about a known, living in general memory 
work. Almost every one of his stories is like 
a stone thrown in the midst of a flock of spar- 
rows gathering in the winter time around 
barns: one throw arouses at once a flock of 

winged reminiscences. 

The other characteristics of his stories are 
uncommonness of his conceptions, masterly 
compositions, ofttimes artificial. It happens 
also that a story has no plot (“From the Diary 
of a Tutor in Pozman,” “Bartek the Victor”), 
no action, almost no matter (“Yamyol”), but 
the reader is rewarded by simplicity, rural 
theme, humoristic pictures (“Comedy of Err- 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


11 


ors: A Sketch of American Life”), pity for 
the little and poor (“Yanko the Musician”), 
and those qualities make the reader remember 
his stories well. It is almost impossible to 
forget — under the general impressions — about 
his striking and standing-out figures (‘‘The 
Lighthouse Keeper of Aspinwall”), about the 
individual impression they leave on our minds. 
Apparently they are commonplace, every-day 
people, but the author’s talent puts on them an 
original individuality, a particular stamp, 
which makes one remember them forever and 
afterward apply them to the individuals which 
one meets in life. No matter how insignifi- 
cant socially is the figure chosen by Sienkie- 
wicz for his story, the great talent of the author 
magnifies its striking features, not seen by 
common people, and makes of it a master- 
piece of literary art. 

Although we have a popular saying: Com- 


12 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


paraison rCest pas raisoii^ one cannot refrain 
from stating here that this love for the poor, 
the little, and the oppressed, brought out so 
powerfully in Sienk’iewicz’s short stories, con- 
stitutes a link between him and Francois Cop- 
pee, who is so great a friend of the friendless 
and the oppressed, those who, without noise, 
bear the heaviest chains, the pariahs of our 
happy and smiling society. The only differ- 
ence between the short stories of these two 
writers is this, that notwithstanding all the 
mastercraft of Coppee work, one forgets the 
impressions produced by the reading of his 
work — while it is almost impossible to forget 
“The Lighthouse Keeper” looking on any 
lighthouse, or “Yanko the Musician” listen- 
ing to a poor wandering boy playing on the 
street, or “Bartek the Victor” seeing soldiers 
of which military discipline have made ma- 
chines rather than thinking beings, or “The 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


13 


Diary of a Tutor” contemplating the pale face 
of children overloaded with studies. Another 
difference between those two writers — the 
comparison is always between their short stor- 
ies — is this, that while Sienkiewicz’s figures 
and characters are universal, international — 
if one can use this adjective here — and can be 
applied to the students of any country, to the 
soldiers of any nation, to any wandering mu- 
sician and to the light-keeper on any sea, the 
figures of Fran(;ois Coppee are mostly Paris- 
ian and could be hardly displaced from their 
Parisian surroundings and conditions. 

Sometimes the whole short story is written 
for the sake of that which the French call 
pointe. When one has finished the reading of 
‘'Zeus’s Sentence,” for a moment the charm- 
ing description of the evening and Athenian 
night is lost. And what a beautiful descrip- 
tion it is ! If the art of reading were cultivated 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


14 - 

in America as it is in France and Germany, I 
would not be surprised if some American Le- 
gouve or Strakosch were to add to his reper- 
toire such productions of prose as this hu- 
morously poetic “Zeus’s Sentence,” or that 
mystic madrigal, “Be Blessed.” 

“But the dusk did not last long,” writes 
Sienkiewicz. “Soon from the Archipelago 
appeared the pale Selene and began to sail like 
a silvery boat in the heavenly space. And the 
walls of the Acropolis lighted again, but they 
beamed now with a pale green light, and 
looked more than ever like the vision of a 
dream.” 

But all these, and other equally charming 
pictures, disappear for a moment from the 
memory of the reader. There remains only 
the final joke — only Zeus’s sentence. “A vir- 
tuous woman — especially when she loves an- 
other man — can resist Apollo. But surely 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


15 


and always a stupid woman will resist him.” 

Only when one thinks of the story does one 
see that the ending — that “immoral conclu- 
sion” I should say if I were not able to under- 
stand the joke — does not constitute the es- 
sence of the story. Only then we find a de- 
light in the description of the city for which 
the wagons cater the divine barley, and the 
water is carried by the girls, “with amphorae 
poised on their shoulders and lifted hands, go- 
ing home, light and graceful, like immortal 
nymphs.” 

And then follow such paragraphs as the fol- 
lowing, which determine the real value of the 
work : 

“The voice of the God of Poetry sounded so 
beautiful that it performed a miracle. Be- 
hold! In the Ambrosian night the gold spear 
standing on the Acropolis of Athens trembled, 
and the marble head of the gigantic statue 


16 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


turned toward the Acropolis in order to hear 
better. . . . Heaven and earth listened to it; 
the sea stopped roaring and lay peacefully 
near the shores; even pale Selene stopped her 
night wandering in the sky and stood motion- 
less over Athens.” 

“And when Apollo had finished, a light 
wind arose and carried the song through the 
whole of Greece, and wherever a child in the 
cradle heard only a tone of it, that child grew 
into a poet.” 

What poet? Famed by what song? Will 
he not perhaps be a lyric poet? 

The same happens with “Lux in Tenebris.” 
One reads again and again the description of 
the fall of the mist and the splashing of the 
rain dropping in the gutter, “the cawing of 
the crows, migrating to the city for their 
winter quarters, and, with flapping of wings, 
roosting in the trees.” One feels that the 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


17 


whole misery of the first ten pages was neces- 
sary in order to form a background for the 
two pages of heavenly light, to bring out the 
brightness of that light. “Those who have 
lost their best beloved,” writes Sienkiewicz, 
“must hang their lives on something; other- 
wise they could not exist.” In such sentences 
— and it is not the prettiest, but the shortest 
that I have quoted — resounds, however, the 
quieting wisdom, the noble love of that art 
which poor Kamionka “respected deeply and 
was always sincere toward.” During the long 
years of his profession he never cheated nor 
wronged it, neither for the sake of fame nor 
money, nor for praise nor for criticism. He 
always wrote as he felt. Were I not like Ruth 
of the Bible, doomed to pick the ears of corn 
instead of being myself a sower — if God had 
not made me critic and worshipper but artist 

and creator — I could not wish for another ne- 
2 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


rs 

crology than those words of Sienkiewicz re- 
garding the statuary Kamionka. 

Quite another thing is the story “At the 
Source.” None of the stories except “Let Us 
Follow Him” possess for me so many tran- 
scendent beauties, although we are right to be 
angry with the author for having wished, dur- 
ing the reading of several pages, to make us 
believe an impossible thing — that he was de- 
ceiving us. It is true that he has done it in a 
masterly manner — it is true that he could not 
have done otherAvise, but at the same time 
there is a fault in the conception, and although 
Sienkiewicz has covered the precipice with 
flowers, nevertheless the precipice exists. 

On the other hand, it is true that one read- 
ing the novel will forget the trick of the author 
and will see in it only the picture of an im- 
mense happiness and a hymn in the worship of 
love. Perhaps the poor student is right when 


HEjTOYK SIENKIEWICZ. 

he says: “Among all the sources of happi- 
ness, that from which I drank during the fever 
is the clearest and best.” “A life which love 
has not visited, even in a dream, is still worse.” 

Love and faith in woman and art are two 
constantly recurring themes in “Lux in Tene- 
bris,” “At the Source,” “Be Blessed,” and 
“Organist of Ponikila.” 

When Sienkiewicz wrote “Let Us Follow 
Him,” some critics cried angrily that he les- 
sens his talent and moral worth of the litera- 
ture; they regretted that he turned people 
into the false road of mysticism, long since 
left. Having found Christ on his pages, the 
least religious people have recollected how gi- 
gantic he is in the writings of Heine, walking 
over land and sea, carrying a red, burning sun 
instead of a heart. They all understood that 
to introduce Christ not only worthily or beau- 
tifully, but simply and in such a manner that 


20 


.HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


we would not be obliged to turn away from 
the picture, would be a great art — almost a 
triumph. 

In later times we have made many such at- 
tempts. “The Alysticism” became to-day an 
article of commerce. The religious tender- 
ness and simplicity was spread among Pari- 
sian newspaper men, playwrights and novel- 
ists. Such as Armand Sylvestre, such as 
Theodore de Wyzewa, are playing at writing 
up Christian dogmas and legends. And a 
strange thing! While the painters try to 
bring the Christ nearer to the crowd, while 
Fritz von Uhde or Lhermitte put the Christ in 
a country school, in a workingman’s house, 
the weakling writers, imitating poets, dress 
Him in old, faded, traditional clothes and sur- 
round Him with a theatrical light which they 
dare to call “mysticism.” They are crowding 
the porticos of the temple, but they are merely 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


21 


merchants. Anatole France alone cannot be 
placed in the same crowd. 

In “Let Us Follow Him” the situation and 
characters are known, and are already to be 
found in literature. But never were they 
painted so simply, so modestly, without ro- 
mantic complaints and exclamations. In the 
first chapters of that story there appears an 
epic writer with whom we have for a long 
time been familiar. We are accustomed to 
that uncommon simplicity. But in order to 
appreciate the narrative regarding Antea, one 
must listen attentively to this slow prose and 
then one will notice the rhythmic sentences 
following one after the other. Then one feels 
that the author is building a great foundation 
for the action. Sometimes there occurs a 
brief, sharp sentence ending in a strong, short 
word, and the result is that Sienkiewicz has 
given us a masterpiece which justifies the en- 


22 


HENRYK 5IENKIEWICZ. 


thusiasm of a critic, who called him a Prince 
of Polish Prose. , 

In the second period of his literary activity, 
Sienkiewicz has produced his remarkable his- 
torical trilogy, ‘The Deluge,” “With Fire and 
Sword,” and “Pan Michael,” in which his tal- 
ent shines forth powerfully, and which possess 
absolutely distinctive characters from his short 
stories. The admirers of romanticism cannot 
find any better books in historical fiction. 
Some critic has said righteously about Sienkie- 
wicz, speaking of his “Deluge,” that he is 
“the first of Polish novelists, past or present, 
and second to none now living in England, 
France, or Germany.” 

Sienkiewicz being himself a nobleman, 
therefore naturally in his historical novels he 
describes the glorious deeds of the Polish no- 
bility, who, being located on the frontier of 
such barbarous nations as Turks, Kozaks, 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


^3 


Tartars, and Wolochs (to-day Roumania), had 
defended Europe for centuries from the inva- 
sions of barbarism and gave the time to Ger- 
many, France, and England to outstrip Po- 
land in the development of material welfare 
and general civilization among the masses — 
the nobility being always very refined — 
though in the fifteenth century the literature 
of Poland and her sister Bohemia (Chechy) 
was richer than any other European country, 
except Italy. One should at least always re- 
member that Nicolaus Kopernicus (Koper- 
nik) was a Pole and John Huss was a Chech. 

Historical novels began in England, or 
rather in Scotland, by the genius of Walter 
Scott, followed in France by Alexandre Du- 
mas pere. These two great writers had nu- 
merous followers and imitators in all countries, 
and every nation can point out some more or 
less successful writer in that field, but who 


24 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


never attained the great success of Sienkie- 
v;icz, whose works are translated into many 
languages, even into Russian, where the an- 
tipathy for the Polish superior degree of civil- 
ization is still very eager. 

The superiority of Sienkiewicz’s talent is 
then affirmed by this fact of translation, and I 
would dare say that he is superior to the father 
of this kind of novels, on account of his his- 
torical coloring, so much emphasized in Wal- 
ter Scott. This important quality in the his- 
torical novel is truer and more lively in the 
Polish writer, and then he possesses that psy- 
chological depth about which Walter Scott 
never dreamed. Walter Scott never has cre- 
ated such an original and typical figure as Za- 
globa is, who is a worthy rival to Shake- 
speare’s Falstaffi As for the description of 
duelings, fights, battles, Sienkiewicz’s fantas- 
tically heroic pen is without rival. 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


25 


Alexandre Dumas, notwithstanding the bit- 
ing criticism of Brunetiere, will always remain 
a great favorite with the reading masses, who 
are searching in his books for pleasure, amuse- 
ment, and distraction. Sienkiewicz’s histori- 
cal novels possess all the interesting qualities 
of Dumas, and besides that they are full of 
wholesome food for thinking minds. His col- 
ors are more shining, his brush is broader, his 
composition more artful, chiselled, finished, 
better built, and executed with more vigor. 
While Dumas amuses, pleases, distracts, Sien- 
kiewicz astonishes, surprises, bewitches. All 
uneasy preoccupations, the dolorous echoes 
of eternal problems, which philosophical doubt 
imposes with the everlasting anguish of the 
human mind, the mystery of the origin, the 
enigma of destiny, the inexplicable necessity 
of suffering, the short, tragical, and sublime 
vision of the future of the soul, and the future 


26 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


not less difficult to be guessed of by the hu- 
man race in this material world, the torments 
of human conscience and responsibility for the 
deeds, is said by Sienkiewicz without any 
pedanticism, without any dryness. 

If we say that the great Hungarian author 
Maurice Jokai, who also writes historical nov- 
els, pales when compared with that fascinating 
Pole who leaves far behind him the late lions 
in the field of romanticism, Stanley J. Wey- 
man and Anthony Hope, we are through with 
that part of Sienkiewicz’s literary achieve- 
ments. 

In the third period Sienkiewicz is repre- 
sented by two problem novels, “Without Dog- 
ma” and “Children of the Soil.” 

The charm of Sienkiewicz’s psychological 
novels is the synthesis so seldom realized and 
as I have already said, the plastic beauty and 
abstract thoughts. He possesses also an ad- 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


27 


mirable assurance of psychological analysis, a 
mastery in the painting of customs and char- 
acters, and the rarest and most precious fac- 
ulty of animating his heroes with intense, per- 
sonal life, which, though it is only an illusion- 
ary life appears less deceitful than the real 
life. 

In that field of novels Sienkiewicz differs 
greatly from Balzac, for instance, who forced 
himself to paint the man in his perversity or in 
his stupidity. According to his views life is 
the racing after riches. The whole of Balzac’s 
philosophy can be resumed in the deification 
of the force. All his heroes are “strong men” 
who disdain humanity and take advantage of 
it. Sienkiewicz’s psychological novels are not 
lacking in the ideal in his conception of life; 
they are active powers, forming human souls. 
The reader finds there, in a well-balanced pro- 
portion, good and bad ideas of life, and he rep- 


28 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


resents this life as a good thing, worthy of liv- 
ing. 

He differs also from Paul Bourget, who as 
a German savant counts how many microbes 
are in a drop of spoiled blood, who is pleased 
with any ferment, who does not care for 
healthy souls, as a doctor does not care for 
healthy people — and who is fond of corrup- 
tion. Sienkiewicz’s analysis of life is not ex- 
clusively pathological, and we find in his nov- 
els healthy as well as sick people as in the real 
life. He takes colors from twilight and 
aurora to paint with, and by doing so he 
strengthens our energy, he stimulates our abil- 
ity for thinking about those eternal problems, 
difficult to be decided, but which existed and 
will exist as long as humanity will exist. 

He prefers green fields, the perfume of flow- 
ers, health, virtue, to Zola’s liking for crime, 
sickness, cadaverous putridness, and manure. 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


29 


He prefers I* ame humaine to la bete hu77iaine. 

He is never vulgar even when his heroes do 
not wear any gloves, and he has these common 
points with Shakespeare and Moliere, that he 
does not paint only certain types of humanity, 
taken from one certain part of the country, as 
it is with the majority of French writers who 
do not go out of their dear Paris; in Sienkie- 
wicz’s novels one can find every kind 
of people, beginning with humble peas- 
ants and modest noblemen created by 
God, and ending with proud lords made by 
the kings. 

In the novel ^‘Without Dogma,” there are 
many keen and sharp observations, said mas- 
terly and briefly; there are many states of the 
soul, if not always very deep, at least written 
with art. And his merit in that respect is 
greater than of any other writers, if we take in 
consideration that in Poland heroic lyricism 


^0 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


and poetical picturesqueness prevail in the lit- 
erature. 

The one who wishes to find in the modern 
literature some aphorism to classify the char- 
acteristics of the people, in order to be able 
afterward to apply them to their fellow-men, 
must read “Children of the Soil.” 

But the one who is less selfish and wicked, 
and wishes to collect for his own use such a 
library as to be able at any moment to take a 
book from a shelf and find in it something- 
which would make him thoughtful or would 
make him forget the ordinary life, — he must 
get “Quo Vadis,” because there he will find 
pages which will recomfort him by their beau- 
ty and dignity; it will enable him to go out 
from his surroundings and enter into himself, 
in that better man whom we sometimes 
feel in our interio^ And while reading this 
book he ought to leave on its pages the traces 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


31 


of his readings, some marks made with a lead 
pencil or with his whole memory. 

It seems that in that book a new man was 
aroused in Sienkiewicz, and any praise said 
about this unrivaled masterpiece will be as 
pale as any powerful lamp is pale compara- 
tively with the glory of the sun. For instance, 
if I say that Sienkiewicz has made a thorough 
study of Nero’s epoch, and that his great tal- 
ent and his plastic imagination created the 
most powerful pictures in the historical back- 
ground, will it not be a very tame praise, com- 
pared with his book — which, while reading it, 
one shivers and the blood freezes in one’s 
veins? 

In ^'Quo Vadis” the whole Romay be- 
ginning with slaves carrying mosaics for their 
refined masters, and ending with patricians, 
who were so fond of beautiful things that one 
of them for instance used to kiss at every mo- 


32 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


ment a superb vase, stands before our eyes as 
if it was reconstructed by a magical power 
from ruins and death. 

There is no better description of the burn- 
ing of Rome in any literature. While reading 
it everything turns red in one’s eyes, and im- 
mense noises fill one’s ears. And the moment 
when Christ appears on the hill to the fright- 
ened Peter, who is going to leave Rome, not 
feeling strong enough to fight with mighty 
Caesar, will remain one of the strongest pass- 
ages of the literature of the whole world. 

After having read again and again this 
great — shall I say the greatest historical nov- 
el? — and having wondered at its deep concep- 
tion, masterly execution, beautiful language, 
powerful painting of the epoch, plastic de- 
scription of customs and habits, enthusiasm of 
the first followers of Christ, refinement of Ro- 
man civilization, corruption of the old world, 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


33 


the question rises: What is the dominating 
idea of the author, spread out all over the 
whole book? It is the cry of Christians mur- 
dered in circuses: Pro Christo! 

Sienkiewicz searching always and continu- 
ally for a tranquil harbor from the storms of 
conscience and investigation of the tormented 
mind, finds such a harbor in the religious sen- 
timents, in lively Christian faith. This idea is 
woven as golden thread in a silk brocade, not 
only in “Quo Vadis,” but also in all his novels. 

In “Fire and Sword” his principal hero is an 
outlav;; but. all his crimes, not only against 
society, but also against nafure, are redeemed 
by faith, and as a consequence of it afterward 
by good deeds. In the “Children of the 
Soul,” he takes one of his principal characters 
upon one of seven Roman hills, and having 
displayed before him in the most eloquent way 

the might of the old Rome, the might as it ' 
3 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 

never existed before and perhaps never will 
exist again, he says: “And from all that noth- 
ing is left only crosses! crosses! crosses!” It 
seems to ns that in “Quo Vadis” Sienkiewicz 
strained all his forces to reproduce from one 
side all the power, all riches, all refinement, all 
corruption of the Roman civilization in order 
to get a better contrast with the great advant- 
ages of the cry of the living faith: Pro 
Christo! In that cry the asphyxiated not only 
in old times but in our days also find refresh- 
ment; the tormented by doubt, peace. From 
that cry flows hope, and naturally people pre- 
fer those from whom the blessing comes to 
those who curse and doom them. 

Sienkiewicz considers the Christian faith as 
the principal and even the only help which 
humanity needs to bear cheerfully the burden 
and struggle of every-day life. Equally his 
personal experience as well as his studies made 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


35 


him worship Christ. He is not one of those 
who say that religion is good for the people 
at large. He does not admit such a shade of 
contempt in a question touching so near the 
human heart. He knows that every one is a 
man in the presence of sorrow and the conun- 
drum of fate, contradiction of justice, tearing 
of death, and uneasiness of hope. He believes 
that the only way to cross the precipice is the 
flight with the wings of faith, the precipice 
made between the submission to general and 
absolute laws and the confidence in the infinite 
goodness of the Father. 

The time passes and carries with it people 
and doctrines and systems. Many authors 
left as the heritage to civilization rows of 
books, and in those books scepticism, indiffer- 
ence, doubt, lack of precision and decision. 

But the last symptoms in the literature show 
us that the Stoicism is not sufficient for our 


36 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


generation, not satisfied with Marcus Aurel- 
ius’s gospel, which was not sufficient even to 
that brilliant Sienkiewicz’s Roman a7'hiter ele- 
ganiiarum, the over-refined patrician Petron- 
ius. A nation which desired to live, and does 
not wish either to perish in the desert or be 
drowned in the mud, needs such a great help 
which only religion gives. The history is not 
only magister vitae, but also it is the master of 
conscience. 

Literature has in Sienkiewicz a great poet — 
epical as well as lyrical. 

I shall not mourn, although I appreciate the 
justified complaint about objectivity in helles 
lettres. But now there is no question what 
poetry will be; there is the question whether 
it will be, and I believe that society, being 
tired with Zola’s realism and its caricature, not 
with the picturesqueness of Loti, but with 
catalogues of painter’s colors; not with the 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


3? 

depth of Ibsen, but the oddness of his imita- 
tors — it seems to me that society will hate the 
poetry which discusses and philosophizes, 
wishes to paint but does not feel, makes arche- 
ology but does not give impressions, and that 
people will turn to the poetry as it was in the 
beginning, what is in its deepest essence, to 
the flight of single words, to the interior mel- 
ody, to the song — the art of sounds being the 
greatest art. I believe that if in the future 
the poetry will find listeners, they will repeat 
to the poets the words of Paul Verlaine, whom 
by too summary judgment they count among 
incomprehensible originals: 

la musique encore et toujour s,” 

And nobody need be afraid from a social 
point of view, for Sienkiewicz’s objectivity. 
It is a manly lyricism as well as epic, made 
deep by the knowledge of the life, sustained 


38 


HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. 


by thinking, until now perhaps unconscious 
of itself, the poetry of a writer who walked 
many roads, studied many things, knew much 
bitterness, ridiculed many triflings, and then 
he perceived that a man like himself has only 
one aim: above human affairs '‘to spin the 
love, as the silkworm spins its web.” 

S. C. DE SOISSONS. 

‘^The University,” Cambridge, Mass. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


i 


I 





t 

i 


r » ♦ 





HER TRAGIC FATE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

‘‘‘Blucher,” the German emigrant steamship 
running between Hamburg and New York, 
was rocking across the waters of the Atlantic 
ocean. 

It was on the fourth day of the voyage. 
Two days ago it had passed beyond the view 
of Ireland’s green borders, and now found itself 
on high sea. From the deck nothing was 
visible, so far as the view extended, save the 
even desert of green and gray, furrowed and 
streaked in all directions, moving slowly and 
incessantly, here and there with patches of 
foam; farther away becoming darker and 
more and mere shrouded, and finally merging 

into the cloudy horizon. 

41 


42 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


Here and there these bright masses of 
clouds were reflected in the surface of the 
water, and from this pearly foundation the 
ship’s dark body rose majestically. This mas- 
sive-looking hull, facing toward the west, 
w^ould ascend one wave, climbing swiftly up- 
w’ard, whereupon it plunged into the depths 
beyond, as if rushing away, never again to be 
seen. Now entirely invisible, now riding high 
upon the back of the foamy waves — now car- 
ried so far into the air that one might almost 
see the whole of its bottom, it was speeding 
onward, safely and steadily. One wave after 
another rose up against it: the ship cut into 
them, drove them aside, one by one, and pur- 
sued its steady course. And in its trail was a 
long furrow of foam not unlike a gigantic ser- 
pent. Over and about the stern followed a 
flock of gulls. 

A favorable wind was blowing; the ship 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


43 


went half speed, and the sails were set. The 
weather seemed to grow better and better. 
Here and there the mass of black clouds was 
shattered, admitting to view a scrap of the 
blue sky, which continually changed its shape. 
Since ''Blucher” left the harbor at Hamburg 
there had been a constant wind blowing, yet 
without any approach of stormy weather. The 
westerly breeze would occasionally subside; 
then the sails collapsed with a soaring noise, 
and soon afterward the wind filled them anew, 
causing them to expand as before. The sail- 
ors, in their close-fitting wool garments, 
pulled a rope somewhere about the main 
mast, accompanying each strained move- 
ment with a moaning “Ho — ho — ^o,” and 
raising or lowering their bodies in time to 
the cry, which mingled with the sound 
of the officers’ whistle and the fever- 
ish breathing of the smokestack with 


44 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


its successive black clouds and light rings of 
smoke. 

The passengers, taking advantage of the 
favorable weather, had come out on the deck. 
At the stern of the steamer the elegant cloaks 
and overcoats of the first-class passengers 
were in evidence. Toward the bows there 
was a motley crowd of emigrants that com- 
manded only the accommodations of the steer- 
age. Some had seated themselves on bench- 
es, smoking their short-stemmed pipes; oth- 
ers stretched themselves at full length, and 
still others stood by the gunnel looking down 
into the water’s depths. 

There were several women with children on 
their arms and divers tin utensils fastened at 
their waists. Young men walked cautiously 
and with some difficulty up and down, sing- 
ing, “Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland?” — 
thinking, probably, that they would never 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


45 


again see this fatherland, which idea added 
nothing, indeed, to their cheerfulness. 

Among this crowd were two persons who 
kept themselves somewhat apart from the 
common jovial intercourse. It was an old 
man and his daughter. Neither had learned 
to master the German tongue, so they were 
really quite alone among strangers. At first 
glance they were seen to be strangers. 

The man’s name was Lorenz Toporek; 
Marys, that of the girl, his daughter. They 
had ventured out upon the deck the first time 
a few moments ago, and their faces bore an 
expression of surprise and awe. They viewed 
their fellow passengers, the sailors, the steam- 
er, the powerful, imposing smokestack, and 
the threatening waves, which threw their 
foam out over the ship, — they viewed all this 
with apprehension, scarcely daring to speak 
to each other. Lorenz held the railing with 


46 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


one hand and his square cap with the other, in 
order to prevent the wind from carrying away 
this necessary garment. The girl kept close 
to her father; at each movement of the ship 
she would cling to him, scarcely able to sup- 
press the ejaculation of terror that rose to her 
lips. After some time the old man broke the 
silence : 

''Marys.” 

"What is it, father?” 

"Do you see?” 

"I do.” 

"Do you wonder?” 

"I do.” 

Fear was, however, far stronger than won- 
der, in the girl’s mind. Old Lorenz, himself, 
was similarly affected. Happily for them the 
violence of the sea had now somewhat sub- 
sided; the velocity of the wind decreased, and 
the sunshine broke through the clouds. On 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


47 


seeing the “dear sun” they again were re- 
lieved; it was the same as had always shone 
over Lipince. But here everything bore new 
and strange traits; only the bright, beaming 
dial of the sun appeared to have remained 
their friend and protector. 

The sea, in the meantime, became more and 
more even on the surface; the sails hung 
down loose, and from the high bridge sounded 
the captain’s command, whereat the sailors 
hastened to take them in. The sight of these 
men, who seemed almost to float in the air 
high above the ocean’s waters, filled anew the 
hearts of the two spectators with fear. 

“Our boys would not be able to do that,” 
said the old man. 

• “Why,” returned Marys, “if the Germans 
can climb as high as up there, then Jasko — he 
would not remain below.” 


“Which Jasko? Sobek?’ 


48 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


“Sobek! — no, I speak of Smolak, the 
groom.” 

‘'He is an able boy, but you must think no 
more of him. He is not fitted for you, nor 
you for him. Over in the new country some- 
thing else will be in store for you. He is but 
a groom, and will remain such all his life.” 

“But he possesses a ” 

“Whatever he possesses, it is located in 
Lipince.” 

Alarys made no reply, but merely thought 
that no one evades fate. She sighed with a 
great longing. By this time all the sail had 
been taken in, and the propellers commenced 
pulsating so vigorously that the whole frame 
of the ship vibrated. The rocking, however, 
ceased almost entirely, and far away the wa- 
ter’s surface appeared quite even and smooth. 
One new figure after another appeared on the 
deck: Workmen, German peasants, vaga- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


49 


bonds that sought adventure instead of work 
in the new world. The deck became filled far 
beyond its capacity with crowds of people 
from below, so the two, fearful of being in 
any one’s way, retreated to an obscure 
corner and seated themselves upon a coil 
of cord. 

“Father,” said the young girl, “how long 
are we yet to remain on the water?” 

“Do I know? No Christian soul can an- 
swer such a question as that.” 

“How shall we make ourselves understood 
in America?” 

“Have I not told you that we should find 
very large numbers of our own countrymen 
there?” 

“Little father!” 

“What is it?” 

“It is true that here is much to wonder 

about, but it was far better in Lipince.” 

4 


50 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


“Do not utter such sinful words,” retorted 
the old man. But in another moment he add- 
ed, in an undertone: 

“God’s will be done!” 

Tears were rising in the girl’s eyes, and 
both she and her father thought of home. 
Lorenz Toporek considered the reason why 
he emigrated to America, and how it all had 
come. How it all had come? Well, half-a- 
year ago — it was in the summer-time — some 
one had discovered his cow browsing about 
another man’s meadow. The owner of this 
pasture demanded the sum of three ruble for 
damage sustained, which amount Lorenz de- 
clined to pay. They took the matter into the 
courts, and the decision was retarded. Now 
the man who claimed damage demanded not 
only the aforesaid sum of money, but also a 
reimbursement of the expense incurred in the 
keeping and feeding of the cow, so the total 


RAGIC FATE. 


51 


grew continuaHy larger. Lorenz stolidly re- 
fused to pay; the case was dragged from one 
court into another, until finally the decision, 
went against Lorenz. The cow had by this 
time caused him considerable expense, and in- 
asmuch as he was without means the creditor 
seized upon his horse, while the debtor him- 
self must suffer imprisonment for contempt of 
court. Lorenz objected to this treatment 
with might and main; harvest drew near; his 
hands as well as his horse were indispensable 
to the work required for the maintenance of 
his farm. In spite of all his efforts his grain 
could not, however, be stored in due time, but 
remained in the fields where, owing to the ad- 
vent of the wet season, it sprouted and was all 
spoiled. Now he stopped to consider that 
owing to that paltry affair of the meadow a 
great deal of money, some of his machinery 
and all of the year’s crop had been lost, conse- 


52 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


quently all that was left for the subsistence of 
himself and his child during the remainder of 
the year was only such Groschen as might be 
begged of the neighbors. 

As he had been heretofore a farmer of some 
means, whose affairs were above reproach, his 
anger and pain led him to drown his sorrows 
in strong drink. At the public-house he now 
became acquainted with some Germans that 
traveled over the country, ostensibly for the 
purpose of buying up hemp, but really acting 
as emigrant agents. One of them told the 
most ” wonderful stories of America. He 
promised to every one m^ore free land than 
was possessed by the entire town of Lipince, 
and, in addition, woods and meadow-land, — 
until the peasants’ hearts beat with joyful an- 
ticipation and desire. Our friend had some 
doubts in his mind, but the Jewish adminis- 
trator of a neighboring estate corroborated 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


53 


the statements made by the German, asserting 
that over yonder the government donated to 
each man as much land as he chose to care for. 
This the Jew had learned from his son-in-law. 
The German displayed sundry sums of money, 
the like of which had not been seen for a con- 
siderable length of time by either the peasant 
or the owner of larger estates. And the peas- 
ant was tempted so often that he at length 
succumbed. Why, really, should he remain 
where he was? He had lost, in fact, through 
the lawsuit so much money that it would 
have been sufficient for the keeping of a ser- 
vant. Would it be better to wait until every- 
thing was lost and he might take his stand by 
the church-door, a stick in his hand, singing 
old, popular songs to win a penny from the 
listeners? No, that would lead to nothing? 
So he shook hands with the German; toward 
fall his entire property was sold; he brought 


54 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


hisi daughter away and went with her to 
America. 

Yet the voyage was by no means such an 
easy matter as he imagined. In Hamburg, he 
was required to pay a very large sum of mon- 
ey. On the ship they both shared the cabin 
assigned to them with a good many others. 
The rocking of the vessel and the endlessness 
of the ocean inspired them with horror. They 
possessed no power of making themselves un- 
derstood; they were treated like lifeless 
things; like stones in every one’s way they 
were pushed from one side to another — a 
source of mockery to their fellow-passengers. 
At noon, when all gathered about the cook, 
with plates and buckets in their hands, they 
were thrust back among the last ones, so that 
occasionally their hunger was not at all stilled. 
How miserable, how lonely and strange-like 
they felt on board this ship. Save God they 


HZR TRAGIC FATE. 


55 


had no protector. Toward his daughter the 
old man assumed the role of one that has no 
fear; he wondered at everything and turned 
the girl’s attention to everything strange and 
remarkable, yet without trusting to the gen- 
uineness of anything. He often feared that 
‘‘the heathens,” as he termed the other pas- 
sengers, might throw himself and his child 
into the water; that they would be forced to 
accept some new religion, or that somebody 
would indute them to sign some document or 
other, perhaps even a bond of some kind. 

And this ship, which sped across the end- 
less surface of the ocean day and night, — it 
shook and moaned, like a monster breathing, 
until the waters foamed about its sides and 
threw out fiery sparks into all directions, — 
even that appeared to the old peasant a sus- 
picious, indomitable source of power. His 
heart was full of childish fears, though he 


56 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


did his best to conceal them from his 
daughter. 

Was, however, this Polish peasant, who 
skipped out of his old nest, — was he not like a 
defenseless child, always dependent upon the 
grace of God? ,Besides, it seemed impossible 
that all the new, things by which he was sur- 
rounded could be assigned to their proper 
place in his head, and so we must not wonder 
that he, while sitting on the coil of rope, bent 
his poor head under the burden of care and 
uncertainty. The cool breeze that waved 
across the ocean whispered into his ear: 
‘'Lipince, — Lipince!” The sun seemed to 
call to him: “How do you do, Lorenz, old 
friend! I just passed over Lipince;” — but the 
screw hurled away the water incessantly; the 
smokestack kept on puffing and puffing. Both 
appeared to him evil spirits that crushed him 
further and further out into destruction. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


57 


The girl, whose attention had for a while 
been arrested by the flock of gulls which fol- 
lowed in the foamy trail of the ship, was oc- 
cupied by a different line of thought. She re- 
called to herself those autumn evenings in 
Lipince, when, at a late hour, she had gone 
down to the well with her bucket. The stars 
twinkled from the sky far above; the air was 
clear and calm. She let down her bucket and 
pulled it up again, humming some old tune, 
— she felt as mild and great a longing as that 
of the swallow which prepares itself for a flight 

into a strange land. Then, suddenly 

from out of the stillness of the forest there 
came a sound, a long tone — the sign which 
tells her that Jasko had observed the move- 
ment of the well-sweep. Nor does a long 
time pass before he comes driving up, jumps 
from the wagon, shakes his flax-like hair, and 
— and never will she forget the words that 


58 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


passed from his lips then and there. She 
closed her eyes and thought she heard anew 
the voice that trembled in her ear: 

‘‘If your father persists in his unreasonable 
determination, well and good; — I give up my 
place, dispose of my hut and what else belongs 
to me, and follow you. Marys, my own,” said 
he, “then I, too, shall fly away on the wing of 
the wind, swim through the ocean, seek you 
in the wilderness, — my beloved, — and find 
you! Where you go I must follow; whatever 
you suffer, I, too, must go through. We are 
united in life and death. And as I have made 
you this promise over the water of this well, I 
ask that God forsake me if I ever leave you, — 
Marys, my own!” 

Recalling to her mind these words the girl 
saw before her the well, the ruddy-looking 
dial of the moon, which rose behind the forest, 
and her Jasko, who stood before her, live and 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


59 


Strong. These thoughts were a source of 
much consolation to her troubled heart. 
Jasko was a determined young fellow, and she 
never doubted that he would do as he told her 
then and there. Ah, how she wished he was 
already with her, and that he and she could 
listen together to the roar of the sea. On his 
account she had no fear whatever; he feared 
nobody, and was able to take care of himself 
anywhere. 

She wondered what he might be doing now, 
when the first snow had likely fallen at Lip- 
ince. Had he gone to the woods with his axe, 
felling trees? Was he tending his horses, or 
had they sent him out with the sleigh on some 
errand? Where might her lover now be? 
Before her vision arose a picture of her native 
town, as it lay there, the snow covering the 
frozen roads; — the ruddy tinge of the sunset 
covering the dark branches of the leafless 


60 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


trees; — the flocks of crows and jackdaws 
that went quacking from the forest down over 
the village; the bands of smoke which rose 
from the chimneys toward the sky, as straight 
as candles; the crust of ice around the edge of 
the well, and over there, in the back- 

ground, the woods bathed in the reddish glare 
of the setting sun. 

Ah, and where was she herself? Where had 
her father’s will brought her? As far as one 
can see there is water, water, nothing but 
greenish, foamy furrows, and on this immeas- 
urable ocean nothing was visible save this 
ship, which seemed like a stray bird. Above 
her the sky, below, the infinite desert of water, 
the rush of the waves, — about her the wind 

howling, and there, the stem of the 

ship pointing toward the promised land. 

Poor Jasko, will you be able to find her over 
there? Will the breeze and the waves carry 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


61 


you to her? Do you think of her in Li- 
pince? 

Slowly the sun sinks down in the west and 
disappears in the ocean. Over the furrowy 
waves rests a broad, sparkling- band, which 
shines with a golden, glittering light, rising 
and falling, until at length it disappears far, 
far away. The ship, continuing its course 
along a golden stream, now appears to speed 
directly toward the sinking sun. The mighty 
bands of smoke assume a ruddy tinge, like- 
wise the sail and the ropes. Now the seamen 
begin to sing, whilst the orb in the sky grows 
larger and larger. Soon there is but one-half 
of it above the water, then the rays alone are 
visible, whereupon the whole of the western 
sky assumes a fiery glow. The sky, the air 
and the water form one great mass of light, 
which finally fades out by degrees. The rush 
of the water is more subdued; milder than be- 


6 ^ 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


fore, as if the waves now say their evening 
prayers. 

In. such moments the soul of man seems en- 
dowed with wings; all that it loves is folded 
more warmly in its embrace; it soars toward 
everything for which it is longing. Lorenz 
and Marys both felt that the wind was now 
carrying them to a foreign place, and that the 
tree from which they originated had no roots 
in the soil they now approached. Their own 
roots still remained in the place from which 
they had departed. Polish soil, fruitful, with 
flowery, moist, glistening meadows, where 
storks would stalk about — the white mansions 
amidst blooming linden-trees; — swallows sail- 
ing about the straw-covered huts; — numerous 
representations of the Crucifixion, where one 
would pull off his cap, saying: ‘Traise unto 
Jesus Christ,” eventually receiving the re- 
joinder, ‘Tn eternity, amen;”- -Poland, our be- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


G3 


loved mother, dear to us above anything else 
in the world! What the simple minds of the 
two peasants had not before dreamed of, was 
now before them. Lorenz pulled off his cap; 
the fading sunlight touched his grayish hair. 
His thoughts came and passed, but with great 
difficulty, as it was not clear to him how the 
things that weighed upon his mind could be 
made clear to the child. 

At length he began : 

“Marys, it seems to me that something has 
been left behind over beyond the sea.” 

“Happiness has remained behind, and so 
has love,” returned the girl, in a subdued tone, 
raising her eyes like in prayer. 

In the meantime darkness set in, and the 
travelers gradually retired from the deck. 
There was an uncommon stir all about 
the ship, however. A beautiful sunset is 
scarcely ever followed by a peaceful, quiet 


64 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


night, so the officers’ whistles sounded every- 
where, and the sailors manoeuvred about, 
pulling the ropes. The last purple-colored 
rays had scarcely been drowned in the sea, 
when a dense fog arose, as it seemed, out of 
the water, and the stars, hitherto scarcely visi- 
ble, disappeared from view. The fog, grow- 
ing denser and denser, shrouded the entire 
structure of the ship. Only the main mast 
and the smokestack were yet protruding, but 
the figures of the sailors appeared like dark 
shades. In the course of one hour everything 
was wrapped in a cloak of misty white, even 
the lighted lantern that had been fastened to 
the end of the main mast, and the sparks 
which came soaring out of the smokestack. 

All rocking on the part of the ship had 
ceased, and one felt as if the weight of the 
fog had even paralyzed the force of the waves. 

Night came, — a dark, dull night. Suddenly 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


65 


there sounded through the deep quiet of the 
darkness a singular roar, emanating, as it 
seemed, from the remotest line of the horizon. 
It made the impression of a giant’s breath, 
approaching nearer and nearer. Sometime one 
thought he heard voices calling from out of 
the darkness; then there was a tempest of sad, 
moaning cries, — a powerful rush of voices 
soaring toward the ship from out of infinitude 
beyond. 

Some sailors, on hearing these sounds, ex- 
pressed themselves to the effect that now the 
storm fetched the winds out of hell. 

The signs of perturbances became more and 
more plain. The captain, wrapped in a rubber 
cloak and cap, mounted the steps of the high- 
est bridge, while one of the officers took up 
his position next to the compass, which was 
illumined with a strong light. There were 
no more travelers on deck; Lorenz and his 


5 


66 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


daughter had retired to their places down in 
the steerage. The lamps, fastened to the ceil- 
ing of the low arch which overhung the space, 
lighted but faintly the group of emigrants. 
Quiet reigned among these people, who had 
seated themselves on their berches along the 
walls. The space was large and somber, as is 
always the case with the portions of the lower 
decks allotted to travelers of scant means. The 
berths, which ran along the side of the ship, 
seemed like dark caves rather than sleeping 
places, and the whole bore a disagreeable re- 
semblance to a vaulted cellar. The air was 
saturated with a smell of tarred canvas, hemp 
ropes and perpetual moisture. How far apart 
from here the gorgeous salons of the First 
Cabin seemed. Even a brief sojourn in these 
miserable steerage-cabins poisons the lungs 
with impure air, blanches the cheeks and gives 
frequently rise to scurvy. Lorenz and his 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


er 

daughter were but four days on the water, but 
anyone that had previously known the rosy- 
cheeked, blooming village child would scarce- 
ly have recognized her in -this dejected-look- 
ing maiden. 

Even old Lorenz had become yellow and 
shrivelled-looking, as they had not until this 
day ventured out upon the deck. They 
thought it was forbidden ! Scarcely daring to 
stir, they also hesitated about leaving alone 
their hand-baggage. And not only they, but 
most of the other passengers kept close to 
their belongings. The steerage was fairly 
blocked with all kinds of emigrants’ bundles, 
and the general disorder prevailing did much 
to intensify the dismal aspect of the place. 
Bedclothes, garments, articles of food and kit- 
chen utensils lay scattered all over the floor. 
Among the packages and bundles the emi- 
grants rested in different attitudes, the ma- 


68 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


jority being Germans. Some chewed tobacco, 
others smoked; dense clouds of smoke 
clogged the narrow space and dimmed the 
faint glare of the lamps. There were some 
children sitting in different corners, but their 
merry romps had ceased, as the fog had filled 
everyone with evil forebodings, fear and un- 
rest. The more experienced persons among 
the emigrants knew that a storm was coming, 
yet every one felt that danger, perhaps even 
death, was ahead. Only Lorenz and Marys 
realized nothing save the ominous noise that 
was heard from overhead, whenever anybody 
pushed his w’ay into the cabin-room. 

Both were sitting in the narrowest nook, 
nearest to the keel, where the rocking was felt 
more intensely than in other parts of the ship. 
They had been pushed down here by their fel- 
low-passengers. The old man had just begun 
to refresh himself with a piece of home-made 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


69 


bread, while Marys, tired of being idle, plaited 
her hair for the night. 

Little by little the general silence roused 
their attention and wonder. 

''Why are the Germans so quiet to-day?’" 
asked she. 

"How can I know!” replied Lorenz, as us- 
ual. "Probably they celebrate some holiday, 
or maybe something else — ” 

Suddenly a powerful shock passed through 
the whole structure of the ship. It almost 
seemed to collapse and sink; the tin utensils 
clashed together; the lamps flickered up as if 
trying to catch breath, and several voices 
cried out: 

"What does this mean? — what has hap- 
pened?” 

Nobody answered. Another shock, more 
powerful than the first, now passed from one 
part of the steamer to another. The fore 


70 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


part rose high into the air and in the next 
moment fell back into its former position, 
while a wave came rolling up against the bull’s 
eye. 

‘‘A storm is 'coming!” whispered Marys, 
quite frightened. 

In the meantime the wind soared about the 
ship, like the storm sweeping down among 
the trees in the forest. There was a sound 
which seemed like the sighing and moaning of 
thousands. The gale occasionally swept 
against the ship, forced it down to one side, 
turned it around and lifted it high up, as if 
preparing to precipitate it among the depths 
beyond. It creaked in every corner; all loose 
articles were thrown down upon the deck. 
Several persons tumbled down from their 
berths, tearing with them the beddings and 
clothes, and the glassware rattled dismally. 

Again a deep soaring; the rush and wash of 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


71 


the waves, as they overflowed the upper deck, 
the quivering of the vessel ; shrieking women, 
yelling children; people hunting together 
their property; and amidst this chaotic condi- 
tion of things the penetrating shrill of the offi- 
cers^ whistles, or the heavy footsteps of the 
sailors upon the upper and lower decks. 

“Holy Virgin of Czestochau!” whispered 
Marys. 

Now the fore part of the ship, where father 
and daughter were sitting, rose and fell with 
appalling swiftness. Although they clung in 
agony to their berths, the movement was for- 
cible enough to throw them with some force 
against the wall. From moment to moment 
the noise of the waves increased, and the decks 
creaked so intensely that those underneath ex- 
pected a collapse of the ceiling any minute. 

“Hold on, Marys!” cried Lorenz, hoping to 
be heard above the noise of the wind, but very 


72 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


soon fear lamed his tongue as well as that of 
the others. Within the cabin everything was 
oppressively quiet; everyone clung to this or 
that thing, caught in the frenzy of the mo- 
ment, holding his breath. 

The fury of the storm constantly increased; 
all Nature’s elements appeared to be set free. 
Darkness deepened the fog all. about. Sky 
and water plunged into each other; the wind 
carried the foam in everywhere. The waves, 
like heavy artillery, beat upon the steamer, 
turned it right and left, up and down. Now 
and then a foaming mountain of water would 
rush past and across the ship, inundating 
everything in its course. 

Little by little the oil in the steerage lamps 
was consumed, and at length the light dwin- 
dled down, whereupon darkness prevailed all 
around. Marys and Lorenz felt as if the eter- 
nal night of death had descended upon them. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


73 


“]\Iarys,” commenced the peasant, catching 
his breath, ^‘Marys, forgive me that I brought 
you away into destruction. Our last hour has 
come. Our sinful eyes shall no more look 
out upon the world. Without a last confes- 
sion, without the extreme unction, we, mis- 
erable as we are, must face eternity. We are 
deprived even of a resting place in the earth’s 
soil, and must be content with a grave in the 
sea.” 

^larys, hearing him speak thus, knew there 
was no hope for them. Through her mind 
many thoughts were passing now, but amidst 
it all her soul cried out in agony: 

“Jasko, Jasko, my beloved, can you hear me 
in far-away Lipince?” 

A terrible pain pressed her heart together 
within her, and it commenced beating hard. 
Amidst the occasional lull, when the quiet of 
the cabin was left, one might hear the girl’s 


M4: 


HER TRAGIC FATE, 


loud sobbing. From one of the corners a 
voice broke out: '‘Be still!” but was mute 
again, as though the person was scared at his 
own outcry. One of the lamp glasses fell 
down and was shattered. The passengers 
now crowded together in a corner, in order 
that they might at least be nearer to one an- 
other. A hush, full of anxiety, prevailed in 
the crowd, when amidst deep silence the voice 
of the peasant rang out: 

“Kyrie Eleison!” 

“Christus Eleison!” returned Marys. 

“May Christ hear us!” 

“Almighty, heavenly Eather, have mercy 
upon us!” 

Both repeated the conventional prayers. 
The old man’s voice, filling the silent space, 
and the maiden’s supplications, often stifled 
by sobs, lent a singular solemnity to the scene. 
Some of the emigrants uncovered their heads. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


75 


Little by little the girl regained her compos- 
ure; the voices became more and more steady, 
and from without the wind continued to ren- 
der its dull, monotonous accompaniment! 

Suddenly those nearest to the entrance 
raised their voices to a loud cry. A wave of 
unusual size had forced its way through the 
upper door and rolled down over the staircase 
through the steerage. There was a splashing 
of water in all corners; the women cried out in 
agony and retreated hastily to their berths. 
Everyone thought his last hour had arrived. 

A moment afterward one of the officers, ex- 
cited and wet from head to foot, opened the 
door and entered, carrying in his hand a lan- 
tern. In a few words he reassured the women 
and stated that the water had come in only 
by accident. As the ship sailed'in the open 
sea, there was no great danger. 

Nearly two hours had passed. The storm 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


'?6 

was yet increasing in violence; the ship broke 
away at a fearful speed, creaking throughout 
its structure, tumbled from side to side, but 
without sinking. By and by the people were 
appeased; many of them even sought their 
berths. In the course of the next few hours 
one ray of light after another forced its way 
through the bull’s eyes, shattering darkness 
within and filling the cabin with the gray haze 
of the dawning day. Light fell upon the 
waters all about, — the pale, dazed light of a 
stormy day, yet it brought to the exhausted 
passengers fresh courage and hope. Lorenz 
and Marys, having said all the prayers they 
knew by heart, slipped into their berths and 
fell asleep in an instant. 

The bell, calling out for breakfast, roused 
them, but they could eat nothing. Their heads 
were as heavy as if they carried therein a bur- 
den of lead. The old man felt considerably 


HER TRAGIC FATE, 


77 


more exhausted than the girl; his dull senses 
were scarcely able to comprehend anything 
that passed about him. The German who 
had persuaded him to emigrate to America 
had told him it was necessary to cross the 
water, but never had he supposed this sheet 
of water to be so large; never had he thought 
that the voyage would extend over so many 
days and nights. It was true enough, as he 
had surmised, that a ship of some kind must 
carry him across, — he had crossed rivers and 
lakes a good many times in his lifetime, — yet 
in case it would have been explained to him 
how great the ocean really was, he would cer- 
tainly have remained in Lipince. And besides, 
another thought troubled him. Had he not 
really reduced his own soul and that of his 
child to destruction and doom? Did he, a 
good Christian,— did he not, in taking leave of 
Lipince, commit a great sin and plunge into 


rs 


KFR TRAGIC FATE. 


a labyrinth through which he and his child 
must move for five days and more, ere they 
could reach the opposite shore, if such a shore 
there really was? 

His fears and doubts were destined, how- 
ever, to last more than seven days. The storm 
continued for about two days, then the 
weather once more became quiet. So they 
once more took courage enough to walk out 
upon the deck, but the sight of the immense 
force of the restless ocean, — these gigantic 
mountains of water, which rolled past the 
ship, across, made them reflect once more 
upon the question if anyone except God, — 
if anything short of Divine power, — if any 
plan of human origin could carry them over to 
the safe coast beyond. 

At length the sky grew perfectly clear and 
serene. One day passed like another, and 
from the steamer one saw as before nothing 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


79 


but the endless sheet of water, now shining* 
with a silvery splendor, now wrapped in a 
greenish hue, and far, far away the union of 
sea and sky. Bright clouds rose here and 
there against the blue above; toward evening 
they would assume a rosy tone, which faded 
out when the sun went down far away in the 
west. 

The ship rapidly pursued its way in the 
same direction as before. Lorenz thought the 
ocean would never end. At length he gathered 
up courage enough to inquire of someone. So 
one day he pulled ofY his square-cut cap, 
bowed obediently to one of the sailors who 
passed by, and asked the following question: 

‘‘Gnadiger Herr, will this voyage last 
long?’' 

And to his great wonder the sailor not only 
refrained from laughing outright, but even 
condescended to stand still and listen. The 


80 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


muscles in his rough, weather-beaten face 
twitched like in a great effort, or as if he 
labored with remembrances that refused to 
take shape at once. After a while he opened 
his mouth and spoke: 

‘AVhat?” 

“Will it take us long time to reach firm 
soil, gnadiger Herr?” 

“Two days, two days,” returned the sail- 
or in a weary tone, but using the 
peasant’s mother tongue. To make it per- 
fectly intelligible he stretched out two fin- 
gers. 

“I thank you humbly.” 

“Where did you come from?” 

“From Lipince.” 

“And what is Lipince?” 

Marys, who had come forward during this 
discourse, flushed over and over, but, lifting 
her eyes to the sailor’s stoical face, answered 


HER TRAGIC Fx\TE. 


81 


in that high-pitched tone usually found among 
peasant girls: 

“We came from the province of Posen, 
gnadiger Herr.” 

The man stared thoughtfully at the brass 
clamps by which the boards of the deck were 
held together, whereupon he allowed his 
glance to pass over the girl’s flaxy hair. A 
slight shadow of something like an emotion 
passed over his hardened features. Then he 
continued, by way of explanation: 

“I once lived in Danzig, therefore I under- 
stand the Polish language. My name is Kas- 
zuba, and some time long ago I was your 
countryman. Now I am a German.” 

Having said this he once more took hold of 
the rope at which he had been pulling, turned 
away and pulled the line, calling out his 
“ho — o — o,” after the fashion of seamen. 

Whenever Lorenz and Marys afterward 


6 


HZR TRAGIC FATE. 


6^ 

appeared on deck, he would give the girl a 
kind glance and a smile as soon as he caught 
sight of her. So the two forsaken ones had at 
least one living soul on the large emigrant 
steamer who wished them well. Still, the 
voyage would soon be ended. When, in the 
morning of the second day following, they 
came out on the deck, a singular object ar- 
rested their attention. They saw at a distance 
a dark object which floated on the water and 
was moved back and forth by its movements. 
Approaching they observed that it was a large, 
red tun, with which the waves played continu- 
ously. Far away there appeared another and 
yet another. Both air and water seemed 
shrouded in a fog, fine and mild. The ocean’s 
surface scarcely stirred, and the farther the 
view extended the more tuns were visible, 
rocking on the sea. Great flocks of white 
birds with black wings circled around the ship 


HER xr^AGIC FATE. S3 

and followed it like dense clouds, screaming 
and piping. An unusual bustle reigned on the 
deck. The sailors had donned new clothes; 
some polished the brass ornaments here and 
there, others were busy in the rigging. A flag 
was hoisted in one of the masts, and another 
larger one paraded in the stern. 

All the travelers looked glad and fresh. 
Some emigrants were busy among their hand- 
baggage, gathering together their belongings 
and lacing them into bundles in the most con- 
venient manner. 

}^Iarys, noticing this, said to her father: 

“It seems, in spite of everything, that we are 
approaching land.” 

A new, invigorating feeling came over both 
persons. On the eastern sky rose the island of 
Sandy Hook, and soon afterward came into 
view another island, crowned with a huge 
building. Far away the misty atmosphere 


84 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


seemed to become concentrated in a dense 
haze, which assumed the shape of distant, 
indistinct stripes extending across the water’s 
surface. The passengers grew more and more 
interested; all hands pointed toward these 
objects; the steamer sounded its powerful 
whistle with a penetrating, shrill cry, as if it, 
too, was anxious to give vent to its joy. 

“What is that?” inquired Lorenz. 

“New York,” replied Kaszuba, who was 
standing at his side. 

The foggy outlines now successively re- 
treated and became effaced, and the steamer, 
as it progressed farther and farther, brought 
into view the contours of houses, roofs and 
chimneys. Pointed spires rose more and more 
plainly and the outlines of towers and high 
factory smokestacks, surrounded by dense 
clouds of smoke, became visible everywhere. 
About the feet of the city clustered a forest of 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


85 


ships’ masts with flags in different patterns 
and shades, which fluttered in the breeze. 
Closer and closer the steamer approached; 
more and more plainly did the beautiful city 
shoot up, as it were, from the bottom of the 
sea. Now old Lorenz was conscious of a 
great joy and a great surprise. He put off 
his cap, opened his mouth and stared at the 
revelation in speechless amazement. Then he 
turned toward the girl, saying: 

“Marys!” 

“Father, for heaven’s sake, what may this 
be?” 

“Do you see it all?” 

“I do.” 

“And do you wonder?” 

“I do wonder.” 

Lorenz, however, did not only wonder; he 
was full of avidity. As he recognized the firm 
lines of the shore along the city’s edge, the 


86 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


parks and open squares, he poured out his 
heart: 

“Now then, God be praised if they will give 
me some land and a homestead near the city, 
— the right place would be close to the mead- 
ows yonder. At fair-time there would be 
splendid opportunities for bringing in your 
cow and your hog and selling them at good 
figures. Here are people, it seems, as numer- 
ous as the sands on the ocean’s shore. I, 
from being a mere peasant in Poland, shall 
become a real gentleman here.” 

As they passed by a park, Lorenz, looking 
at the select groups of trees, continued, en- 
thusiastically: 

“I shall go before the most gracious, the 
commissioner, and address him in the very 
choicest language I know, and ask him give 
me two acres of this beautiful forest. If we 
shall build a homestead it must be one worth 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


bT 

looking at. We’ll clear out some of the trees 
and let our hired man go to town with the 
wood. It will be sold easily enough. The 
Lord Almighty be praised, I see that the Ger- 
man has not taken advantage of me.” 

Even to the girl the view of a life in wealth 
now became quite pleasant, yet she did not 
know why at that moment she found herself 
thinking of the little song with which a bride 
always receives her husband, at Lipince: 

Who mayest thou be. 

What sort of man? 

All thou possesseth is 
A cap and a caftan. 

Was she to sing that hymn to her Jasko, 
when he would come and find her the heiress 
of a large estate? 

In the meantime a boat from the quaran- 
tine office came up to the steamer. Several 
men came aboard, and there was much talk- 
ing and considerable bustle. In a little while 


88 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


another boat hove to, carrying with it a swarm 
of hotel agents, money-changers, guides and 
railroad agents. All these persons yelled on 
top of their voices, ran about the deck, pushed 
aside one another and went over the ship, 
from one cabin to another, in a mad career. 
Lorenz and Marys felt as if they had sudden- 
ly been transferred into a bee-hive and knew 
not where to stir. 

Kaszuba advised the old peasant to have his 
money exchanged for American coin: He 

would see that no one took advantage. So 
he did it. For what he possessed Lorenz re- 
ceived forty-seven dollars in silver. By this 
time the steamer had, however, approached 
quite close to the city, and both houses and 
men became plainly visible on shore. A num- 
ber of larger and smaller vessels passed the 
ship, which finally touched its wharf and 
glided into its narrow dock. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


89 


The voyage was ended. 

IMen, women and children went down the 
gang-board, like bees crowding out of a hive. 
Over the narrow bridge which connected the 
ship with the dock, came down the motley 
swarm of passengers. First those from the 
first cabin, then those from the second, and at 
last came the steerage passengers with their 
bundles. Lorenz and Marys, having been 
pushed hither and thither for a while, finally 
succeeded in finding the sailor, Kaszuba. He 
pressed the old man’s hand warmly, • and 
said: 

“Brother, I wish you success, and the girl 
there too. God help and guide you.” 

“May God reward you,” said both, but 
there was no time for a prolonged leave-tak- 
ing. People were yet crowding down over the 
gangway, and soon the custom house officials 
claimed their entire attention. 


90 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


An officer with a shining star on his coat 
directed the movements of our friends; their 
bundles were examined, an ^‘all right” was 
pronounced, and they were directed toward 
the gate. Passing through this, they found 
themselves in a street. 

‘Tather, dear, what are we now to do?” 
inquired Marys. 

‘‘We must wait. The German said that as 
soon as we landed the government commis- 
sioners would come and inquire for us.” 

So they kept standing against a wall close 
to the gate, waiting for the commissioners to 
put in an appearance, -surrounded by the 
bustle and noise of the immense city. Never 
had they seen anything like this. Straight and 
endless the street extended before them, and 
everywhere surged a crowd of busy persons. 
Carriages, vans and street cars chased up and 
down in endless course. Everywhere sounded 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


91 


the singular strains of a foreign language; 
workmen, salesmen and by-passers cried out 
in different tones. Once in a while a person 
with curly hair and a face as black as pitch 
strolled past. At the sight of them the peas- 
ant and his child would cross themselves de- 
voutly. How singular appeared to them this 
noisy city, where locomotives whistled, wag- 
ons rattled and people yelled all at once. All 
walked so fast, and seemed to chase one an- 
other, or to be chased by some one; — and 
then, what a diversity of men! What singu- 
lar faces, — some black, some olive, some red. 
Around them, too, the bustle was general. 
Vessels were loaded and unloaded; wagons 
drove up, while others departed; trundle-cars 
rolled up and down. Everywhere a surge and 
a noise, as if everything, and everyone, aimed 
to turn upside down, or stand on the head. 

One hour passed after another, and they 


92 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


were yet standing there, waiting for the com- 
missioners. 

A queer sight it was, these two Polish emi- 
grants, in their national garb, amidst these 
surroundings. Yet the by-passers scarcely 
looked at them, but seemed to view their 
presence as well as their appearance as a mat- 
ter of fact. 

Another hour passed; the sky was cloudy; 
it rained at intervals, then snowed, and across 
the water blew a cool, moist, penetrating 
breeze. 

But they remained where they were, waiting 
for the commissioners. The peasant is natur- 
ally of a patient disposition, yet as time passed 
the hearts of the two grew heavy. 

On the ship they had been lonely; here, 
among strangers, their loneliness was intensi- 
fied by fear. Like children who have lost 
their way, they prayed that God would guide 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


93 


them happily across the vast sea. They were 
certain that if they had once reached the other 
shore, fate would favor their every step. Now 
they had reached their destination, this im- 
mense city; they once more felt the firm soil 
beneath them; but amidst this noisy crowd of 
entire strangers they were more lonely and 
more helpless than on the steamer. 

Yet the commissioners had not arrived. 
What should they do if they did not come at 
all, — if the German had deceived them? 

Their poor peasants’ hearts shuddered at 
this thought. What could they do; — would 
they not die miserably? 

“Are you cold, Marys?” asked Lorenz. 

“Very cold, father,” answered the girl. 

Their clothes were drained by the moisture, 
and the icy wind penetrated into their very 
nerve and bone. 

Another hour had passed; twilight began to 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


set in; there was less life and stir displayed 
about the harbor. Lanterns were lighted. 
Soon the whole city lay bathed in a sea of 
light. The workmen from the docks came out 
on the street and walked toward the city, 
one by one or in groups, some humming a 
popular song. By degrees everything as- 
sumed a quiet, subdued tone; the docks were 
closed, and so was the custom house. 

But they held their place yet, waiting for 
the government commissioners. 

At length night came. A hush fell over 
everything far and near. Only from time to 
time the smokestack of the steamers would 
sputter forth a fiery spark, which flew about, 
its glare becoming gradually fainter and 
fainter, until it extinguished. Or a single wave 
would fling itself against one of the quays. 
Here and there sounded a tune sung by some 
sailor who returned to his ship in a pleasant 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


95 


frame of mind. The street lanterns grew dim 
in the dark, dense fog; — but the two remained 
where they were, waiting patiently. 

But even if they had not determined to 
wait, where should they go; to which direction 
should they turn, and where should they lay 
their weary heads to rest? The cold grew 
more and more intense, and they were hungry. 
Even if they had some shelter, however, theit 
clothes were soaked through. 

Ah, the commissioners have not arrived, 
nor will they arrive, for they do not exist. The 
German was an agent for one of the steamship 
companies and counted his percentage by 
heads. He had no further interest in their 
welfare. 

Lorenz felt the earth totter beneath his 
feet; it seemed as if a fearful burden weighed 
upon him, pressing him down; — as if God’s 
judgment hung over his head. He waited 


96 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


and listened, as only peasants can wait and lis- 
ten. The voice of the girl, whose teeth were 
chattering with cold, finally roused him from 
his stupor. 

“Father!’^ 

“Quiet. Nobody pities us.” 

“Father, let us return to Lipince!” 

“Can we go through the water, girl?” 

“Lord, our heavenly Father!” whispered the 
girl. 

“My unfortunate child!” cried he. “If God 
would at least take pity on you.” 

But she listened no more to him. She 
leaned her head against the wall and closed 
her eyes. A heavy sleep, interrupted by spells 
of fever, overpowered her, and amidst the 
desolate surroundings she dreamed of her old 
home and heard the voice of the one she 
loved. 

Dawn came, and looked through a gray fog 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


97 


down upon the two figures which lay close to 
the wall, pale, their limbs drawn together by 
the cold, in a death-like stupor. Yet their 
cup of suffering was not yet full. 


^5 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


CHAPTER II. 

Passing through the city of New York 
from Broadway to Chatham Square one is 
obliged to walk through a number of narrow 
streets, which form a sad-looking, poverty- 
stricken quarter of the city. The streets seem 
to grow narrower and narrower. The houses, 
which may yet belong to those originally 
built by the Dutch colonists, are badly broken 
and half collapsed, with damaged roofs and 
marred walls. The windows in the first stories 
are scarcely above the paving. Instead of the 
straight-lined thoroughfares, which otherwise 
are a constant feature of every American city, 
everything here is curved and angular, and 
the imperfect roofs almost appear ready to fall 
down over one another. 


TRAGIC FATE. 


The low level on which this part of the city 
it situated is responsible for the failure of the 
pools to dry, and the densely crowded struc- 
tures seem to lie in the midst of a pond which 
never dries out, but in the muddy mirror of 
which the dilapidated houses look down upon 
their own ruin. These pools, as well as the 
streets in general, are filled with any kind of 
refuse, which heightens the impression of 
abuse and misery everywhere prevailing. 

In this part of the city are to be found cer- 
tain institutions called “boarding houses,’' 
which offer all kinds of accommodations for 
a consideration of two dollars per week. Here 
we find the drinking houses — barrooms — 
where the whalers hire their crews of bandits 
for their ships. Fraudulent agents from Bra-, 
zil, Venezuela and Ecuador seek these places 
to catch hold of colonists that afterward fall 
victims to deadly fevers in strange countries; 


100 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


here may be found the cheap restaurants, 
which feed people on salt meat, half-spoiled 
hsh. Here is an abundance of Chinese laun- 
dries, gambling dens, sailors’ “homes,” — and, 
finally, robbers’ dens and meeting places, re- 
sorts of vice, misery, and wdiere hunger is as 
frequent as tears are scarce. 

Yet this part of the city teems with life, for 
the large numbers of emigrants who cannot 
even afford the commodities of the resorts 
always surrounding the landing places, and 
wdioni employment agencies neither can nor 
will assist, — these are conspicuous here; here 
they assemble, find shelter, live and die. It 
may be truly said that if the emigrants repre- 
sent the refuse of the nations, the refuse of the 
emigrants may be found in this quarter of the 
city of New York. These persons idle aw^ay 
their time partly because they find no occupa- 
tion, partly for the r.eason that they have no 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


101 


desire of work. In the dead of the night cries 
of help and hoarse yells of rage are often heard 
about these places, with songs from drunken 
Irishmen and yells from colored people, who 
knock one another over the head. At break 
of day one may see crowds upon crowds of 
vagabonds, in ragged clothes, pipe in mouth, 
watching with interest and satisfaction a fight 
between two of their like, setting bets on each 
smashed eye. White and black children, in- 
stead of being sent away to school, wade 
through the dirt all day and look among the 
litter for scraps of vegetables, oranges and 
bananas. Irish women who venture outside 
stretch out their hands when by chance a man 
in decent clothes happens to pass along these 
streets. 

In such a place of human misery we again 
meet our friends Lorenz and Marys. Their 
hopes of coming into possession of landed 


102 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


property had passed like a dream, and the 
terrible reality discloses them to us in a nar- 
row room, with sunken walls and windows de- 
void of panes. Dirt and decay stare out of 
the moist walls, the entire furnishment of 
which consists in a cracked, rusty stove, a 
chair with three legs and a bundle of straw 
heaped up in a corner. This was all. Old Lor- 
enz Toporek kneels down by the stove and 
searches in vain underneath and behind it for 
some eatable thing — a potato or the like. He 
has been searching the room for two days with 
the same result. Marys is sitting on the 
straw, both hands folded over her knees, look- 
ing hopelessly at the floor. The girl is sick, 
pale and thin. Her cheeks, formerly red and 
full, are now gray and emaciated; the whole 
countenance, as it were, had grown smaller. 
Her large, blue eyes had in them a look of 
preoccupation. How plainly was reflected in 


rihK TRAGIC FATE. 


103 


this face the traces of insufficient nourishment^ 
the moist dwelling, their whole deplorable 
condition. They ate nothing but potatoes,, 
but even this food had been wanting for two 
days, so they scarcely knew what to do in or- 
der to uphold their lives. For over three 
months had they been dwelling in this miser- 
able place; now their small store of money 
was gone. Lorenz had tried to find work, but 
no one was able to comprehend the meaning 
of his words. He tried to obtain a place as 
porter in the docks, but in the first place he 
had no wheelbarrow, and then the Irish 
“bosses” would strike him in his face. He 
went to dig in the docks, and once more the 
overseers struck him. What importance could 
otherwise be attached to a workman that did 
not even comprehend what was said to him? 
Wherever he reached out his hand, wherever 
he turned, he was met by ridicule, abused and 


104 : 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


beaten. Thus it was impossible for him to do 
anything, to embrace such opportunities as 
there might be. Through sorrow and shame 
his hair became gray; there was no hope; his 
means were exhausted, and hunger stared 
them in the face. 

In his native country he would have picked 
up a living, even if everything were lost, if 
sickness had exhausted his means, or he had 
been turned out of his own house. He could 
have stationed himself, as others had done, a 
stick in hand, by the crucifix at the 
public road or on the church steps, 
and prayed: ‘‘Heavenly Father, have mer- 
cy on my bloody tears.” The magnate, 
passing by the road, would always open 
his hand, and his tender little wife 
W'Ould place her gift in the pink hand of her 
little son, who fixed his large, blue eyes on the 
beggar and gladly handed him all. Nor did 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


105 


the farmer withhold his bread, and his wife 
would rather give a bacon-rind to one in need, 
than throw it away. Yes, in his native land he 
might have lived after the fashion of the 
birds that neither sow nor reap. And again, 
when he stood under the cross in the public 
road, Christ would guard him, he would re- 
main beneath the sun of his old home and 
walk over the soil he knew best of all; surely, 
amidst these quiet, reposeful surroundings, 
God would hear his prayers. 

Here, however, in this large city, there was 
a roaring in the air, like that of a powerful 
machinery. Everybody pushed on, without 
regard of the welfare of his brethren. One 
would grow faint at all this; one’s arms would 
lose all their strength. The eyes could receive 
no clear impression of what was going on; 
one thought dispelled another. Everything 
presented itself in a strange, repulsive, foreign 


106 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


'and vain light. It seemed to Lorenz that 
everyone that was drawn into this bewilder- 
ing tumult must surrender and be crushed. 

Oh, what a difference between here and 
there. In quiet Lipince Lorenz had been a 
farmer, a possessor of landed property; he 
had his li'ttle circle of acquaintances and 
friends, enjoyed the respect of his fellow-citi- 
zens, was one of the assessors to the court, 
and had had enough to eat from day to day. 
Every Sunday he stepped out before the altar 
with his lighted candle; — here he was the 
least of all, less respected than a dog which 
runs into a stranger’s yard, obedient, fearful, 
shaking with terror, half-starved. During the 
first days of their affliction remembrance often 
whispered to him: “You were happier in Li- 
pince!” And conscience cried into his ear: 
^‘Lorenz, why did you leave your old home?” 
— ^Why? Because God had forsaken him. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


107 


Still, he must carry his cross and wait to see 
the end of his sufferings, realizing that every 
day that passed brought new suffering, and 
that each new sunset witnessed the nameless 
misery of himself and his child. 

And what would happen next? Should he 
procure some rope, say his prayers and hang 
himself and his child? He would not flinch, 
if it were to be. He was not afraid of death, — 
but how would the girl take it? When pon- 
dering over these things he felt that God had 
indeed left him, and that His help and guid- 
ance could no longer be counted upon. 
Amidst the dark surrounding them on all 
sides there was not a single ray of light, and 
he was unable to name even the greatest pain 
he felt. 

His greatest sorrow was, however, really 
his longing for home. It pained him day and 
night, — pained him all the more, because he 


108 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


could not explain to himself what it was. His 
simple mind was unable to fathom this feel- 
ing. He longed for the pine woods, the 
thatched huts, the green fields, the masters, 
peasants and priests, — all that was beneath the 
roof of the sky at home, to which his heart 
clung in love and sympathy. From these 
things he could emancipate himself only at the 
risk of bleeding to death. The peasant rea- 
lized that something weighed heavily upon 
him; from time to time he was seized with 
an impulse to tear his hair out, to knock his 
head against the wall, to throw himself on 
the ground and yell like a dog in his chain; to 
cry out his misery before someone. Before 
whom? He did not know. He bent and stag- 
gered beneath this awful burden of unknown 
suffering. Around him the gigantic city 
keeps on roaring and boiling with nervous ex- 
citement; he throws himself panting and 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


109 


weeping before the feet of Jesus Christ, yet 
without even once seeing His cross. No voice 
answers his call; the surrounding city remains 
unaffected, and there, on the straw, sits the 
girl, her eyes stolidly fixed on the floor, al- 
ways hungry, but ever patient. How queer! 
He and she often sat for days in this room, 
without stirring, without uttering a word to 
each other. They lived like two persons that 
secretly hate each other. The hearts of both 
were heavy, almost too heavy for speaking. 
When one feels the misery of want he would 
rather not speak. And again, what would be 
a fitting subject of discussion? Better not 
touch those bloody wounds. Should one cry 
to the other that they had neither money nor 
food, and that there were no prospects in view 
for them? 

No one would come to assist them. There 
were enough of their countrymen in New 


110 


HZR TRAGIC FATE. 


York, but no one in good, or even in moderate 
circumstances, lives in the neighborhood of 
Chatham Square. A week after , their arrival 
they became acquainted with two Polish fami- 
lies, one from Silesia, the other from Posen, 
but these, too, wxre facing starvation. The 
Silesians had lost two children, and the third 
one was sick, yet it slept every night with its 
parents under a bridge. They all fed upon 
such scraps as they might find in the streets. 
Later someone found them and had them 
brought to a hospital, where all trace of them 
was lost. The other family was in a much 
worse situation, for the man had fallen sick. 
]\Iarys assisted his wife as long as she could 
endure the strain; now she, herself, needed 
some care. 

They might have sought and obtained relief 
from the Polish congregation in Hoboken. 
The priest would have appealed to their 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


Ill 


countrymen on their behalf, but what did they 
know, poor people, of the Polish congrega- 
tion, unable, as they were, to explain to any- 
one what they wranted? Thus every cent they 
paid out of their scant fund was equivalent to 
a fresh step down into the abyss that threat- 
ened to swallow them up. 

So he was now crouching before the stove, 
and she sat irnmovably on the straw. One 
hour passed after another; it grew darker and 
darker, although it was scarcely past noon 
time, but a misty fog pervaded the atmosphere 
among the dingy dwellings. Although the air 
was quite warm outside, both shuddered with 
cold. 

Finally the old man abandoned his 
search. 

^'Marys,” said he, “I cannot endure this 
longer, nor can you. I shall go down to the 
harbor and try to find some wood. Then, at 


112 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


least, we shall not be cold. Perhaps I may 
also find something to eat.” 

She made no reply, so he left the room. He 
had already succeeded in finding the way to 
the harbor and in hunting forth such old 
scraps of timber and empty boxes as the water 
would carry up to the shore. This was done 
by all that could afford no coal. In picking up 
these things Lorenz was often hurt, yet from 
time to time he succeeded in finding some 
eatable things, waste matter that had been 
thrown overboard from the ships. When 
walking about in this manner, seeking what 
he had not lost, there were certain moments 
when he forgot his need as well as the name- 
less pain and longing, which otherwise loomed 
up behind everything else. 

He reached the water’s edge, and as the 
afternoon had not progressed very far there 
were a number of people around the yards and 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


113 


landing places. Some boys began calling, and 
even threw stones, sea shells and the like after 
him, yet he remained. There were many 
pieces of wood floating at the water’s edge; 
one wave might wash them ashore, another 
would suck them back, but he picked up as 
much as he could carry. 

A number of green fragments were tossed 
about by the water’s movements. Lorenz 
wondered what they were, and if they might 
be suitable for eating. None were so near 
that he could reach them, but the boys fished 
for them with hooks and strings and pulled 
up one after another. He himself had no 
string, so he could do nothing but peer eag- 
erly in the direction where they were. When 
finally the boys left the place, he fell upon the 
fragments they had left and devoured them 
eagerly, without thinking of the girl who 

waited for his return in the cold, bare room. 

8 


Hi 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


This time, however, fate rewarded his pa- 
tient search. On returning home he saw a 
wagon heavily loaded with potatoes. It was 
evidently bound for the harbor. One of the 
hind wheels had rolled down into a hole and 
could not be lifted out. So Lorenz seized a 
pole and helped the driver in lifting the wag- 
on. It was very heavy, and the old man’s 
force became strained almost beyond endur- 
ance, but finally the horses made a powerful 
effort, and the wheels began to turn. On ac- 
count of the height of the load a large number 
of potatoes dropped down in the dirt. The 
driver, however, paid no heed to this, but ut- 
tered a few words in appreciation of the help 
he had received, whereupon he lifted his whip 
over the horses and advised them to “get 
up.- 

Lorenz at once fell upon the potatoes. With 
shaking hands did he pick them up and stuff 


TRAGIC FATE. 


115 


them into his pockets, until the latter were 
fairly bursting. His heart at once became 
lighter than before. The bit of bread which a 
hungry man finds calls forth a world of joy. 
Hastening homeward the peasant said to him- 
self: 

“Our heavenly Father be praised that He 
has mercy upon his unhappy children. Here 
is enough of wood, now the girl will fry these 
potatoes, and there will be more than enough 
for two. God is merciful. Now the room 
will be much more pleasant. Why, Marys, 
too, had nqthing to eat since the day before 
yesterday! Now she will be glad. Oh, God 
is merciful.” 

Thus speaking to himself he carried the 
wood in one arm and fumbled with his one 
free hand at the potatoes in his pockets, fear- 
ful of losing even a single one. His feelings 
were those of a man who carries home a great 


116 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


treasure. Presently he raised his glance to- 
ward the sky, murmuring: 

“I almost thought I should have to steal 
them. Now they have fallen down to me, as 
it were, from the sky, and I have not been 
forced to steal. Hitherto we have hungered, 
now we shall eat and be satisfied. God is 
merciful. Marys will rise from the straw as 
soon as she hears that I have secured these po- 
tatoes.” 

Marys had not moved from her straw bed 
when her father left her. Usually her father 
went out early in the morning and brought 
home wood, whereupon he lighted a fire, 
brought in water and ate in her company 
whatever might happen to be in the house. 
Then, every day for a long time she had gone 
out to seek some work for herself. She had 
even succeeded in securing a place in a board- 
ing house, where she washed dishes. But as 


P'.ER TRAGIC FATE. 


117 


the work was new to her and the people could 
make her understand nothing, they had sent 
her away in two days. Upon this she sought 
no further, and, consequently, found nothing. 
For many days she did not even leave her 
room, being afraid to move about the streets, 
where drunken sailors and Irishmen would 
pursue her. This enforced idleness added to 
her unhappiness. , 

The longing for home, like rust in iron, ate 
into her heart. She was more unhappy than 
her father, for added to all her physical suffer- 
ing was a firm conviction of their miserable 
fate, and to her burning homesickness clung 
the thought of her Jasko. True, he had prom- 
ised that wherever she went he would follow, 
but the dismal presence could not spurn hope 
sufficiently to convince her of his faithfulness. 

He was a servant at the castle, and pos- 
sessed, besides, a parental heritage by no 


118 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


means insignificant. She, however, possessed 
nothing; no church rat in Lipince could be 
more hungry than she was. 

Will he come, and — if he comes — will he 
press her to his heart and say ^‘My poor, un- 
happy little girl?” Or will he thrust her aside 
with the slighting remark that she is, after all, 
but a beggar? In any case, what did she pos- 
sess, save rags. Even in Lipince they would 
now, such as they were, be barked at by dogs, 
and yet — some powerful feeling draws her 
back there; her soul might soar aloof with the 
birds, across the wayless ocean, — homeward, 
even if death were all that awaited her there. 
He, her Jasko, was there, and whether or not 
he thought of her, he was dearer to her than 
anyone else in the wide world. Only with 
him was there joy and peace; among all per- 
sons on earth he was the only one to whom 
her whole heart belonged. 


r_z.K rRAoIC FATE. 

While there had yet been a fire in the little 
stove, and she did not suffer with such intense 
hunger as she now felt, the flickering glare 
would yet remind her of the evenings at home, 
when she sat among her girl friends, spinning, 
until Jasko thrust his head in through the win- 
dow and called to her: ‘‘Alarys, you and I will 
some day go before the priest, for I love you 
better than anyone else.” Then she might 
have answered, in jest: “Off with you, you 
don’t say the truth.” And her heart had been 
so light and glad, — like that night, when he 
brought her out of one of the corners in the 
room, and they joined in the dance, while she 
hid her eyes and whispered: “Let me go, I am 
so ashamed!” When she sat in the glare, 
thinking of all this, the tears would come roll- 
ing down her cheeks. Now the fire was out, 
however, and even the flow of her tears had 
ceased, for she had drained them all out. Of- 


1^3 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


ten she felt as if all the tears had flowed down 
into her heart and now weighed upon it, like 
a heavy burden. She was terribly tired and 
her resistance threatened to become ex- 
hausted; in fact, she had scarcely power 
enough to control the course of her thoughts. 
Otherwise she bore her suffering quietly and 
patiently, and sat staring with her big eyes at 
nothing definite, like a bird that is tortured. 

So she sat now, resting on the straw, when 
steps were heard outside and someone ap- 
proached the door. Thinking it might be her 
father she did not even raise her head, — ^when 
suddenly a strange voice sounded in her ear: 

“Look here!” 

It was the owner of the dingy dwelling, a 
mulatto of unprepossessing appearance, with 
torn clothes and both cheeks expanded by 
chewing tobacco. 

At the sight of him the girl was terribly 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


121 


frightened. She must-pay him the room-rent 
for the coming week, and there was not a cent 
in her possession. Only by complete sub- 
mission could she hope to pacify him. She 
fell upon her knees and made an effort to kiss 
his hand. 

^‘1 have come to get my dollar,” said he. 

She understood only the word ‘^dollar,” 
shook her head, said something, she hardly 
knew what, and looked up to him piteously, 
hoping to make him comprehend that she had 
neither money nor food, and that he must 
show mercy. 

‘'God almighty will reward your grace,” 
said she in her mother tongue. 

But his grace did not feel the least flattered 
by the title she conferred upon him; he under- 
stood, however, that there was no money to 
be had. He comprehended this so well, in 
fact, that he at once picked up the bundles 


122 


HZR TRAGIC FATE. 


that lay on the floor, seized the girl by the 
arm, forced her up the steps and into the 
street, where he threw the things before her 
feet, turned around phlegmatically, opened 
the door of the public-room and cried: 

“Hello, Paddy, here’s a room for you.” 

“All right,” someone returned; “I’ll move 
in to-night.” 

The mulatto disappeared in the dark bar- 
room, leaving the girl alone in the open street. 
She humbly picked up her bundles and placed 
them near the house wall, to prevent them 
from coming in too close contact with 
the mud in the street, whereupon she sta- 
tioned herself at the doorstep, waiting pa- 
tiently. 

The drunken Irishmen who passed by paid 
no attention to her. In the room was dark, 
outside, however, clear daylight shone upon 
her, bringing into view her sickly looking face. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


123 


Her flaxen hair had retained its brightness, 
but the lips were pale and the face piteously 
thin. She looked like a withered flower. 

Those passing by looked at her with some 
compassion. An old negro woman even 
stopped and spoke to her, but receiving no an- 
swer she proceeded on her way, disgusted. 

In the meantime Lorenz was hastening 
homeward, spurred on by the agreeable feel- 
ing which a visible proof of God’s mercy pro- 
duces in the mind of the poverty-stricken. He 
had his potatoes; he reflected how they would 
eat and be satisfied; how he would be careful 
of walking the same way next day. Beyond 
this his thoughts did not go; he was too hun- 
gry to make plans for the future. As he ap- 
proached the house and saw the girl standing 
in front his surprise was aroused, and he 
quickened his steps. 

‘‘Why do you stand here?” asked he. 


124 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


‘The owner threw me out, father,” an- 
swered Marys. 

“Threw you out?” 

The wood fell from his shaking hands. 

This was too much. Thrown into the street 
at the moment when he had secured what they 
needed to bite and to burn. What could they 
do now, in the absence of a place where to 
make fire? How could they fry their pota- 
toes, and where would they direct their steps? 
He took off his cap and threw it into the mud 
where the wood was already. He turned 
away, uttered a “Holy Christ,” looked hope- 
lessly at the girl, and repeated once more: 

“Threw you out?” 

Then he stepped forward, fell back, stepped 
forward once more and cried in a hoarse tone: 

“Why did you not ask him to let you stay, 
you sheep?” 

She sighed deeply. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


125 


‘H did ask him.” 

‘‘Did you throw yourself before his feet?” 

“Yes.” 

Once more Lorenz turned and turned back, 
like a worm that is trodden upon. He be- 
came dizzy and almost faint. 

“Wish you wer^ dead!” cried he. 

Full of agony the girl looked up to him: 

“How can I help it, father?” 

“Wait here, and don’t stir. I am going in 
to ask him to permit us at least to fry these 
potatoes.” 

He went. In a few moments there was a 
cry inside, followed by a shuffling of feet. 
Then Lorenz flew out of the door, evidently 
thrust out by a forceful hand. 

One moment he stood still, then he turned 
to Marys and said, briefly: 

“Come!” 

She bent down and gathered up her things. 


126 


HER TR.-V01C FATE. 


but her force was nearly exhausted, and she 
was scarcely able to lift the bundles. Yet he 
made no effort to help her; nay, scarcely per- 
ceived that the burden was nearly too great 
for the girl. So they plodded on. The sight 
of two persons so miserable and forlorn would 
undoubtedly have attracted the attention of 
those whom they passed on their way, were it 
not that they were so accustomed to see all 
phases of misery. Where would they find 
shelter? Was a higher degree of wretched- 
ness possible? 

The girl’s breath grew more and more la- 
bored; from time to time she nearly would 
lose her balance, and finally she said, in a piti- 
ful tone: 

“Father, take these things, I cannot carry 
them further.” 

Her voice roused him, as it were, from a 
dream. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


127 


‘Throw them away, then.” 

“We may need them.” 

“No, we shall have no more use for 
them.” 

Noticing that the girl yet tarried, he cried, 
furiously : 

“Throw them away, or I kill you!” 

In her fear she obeyed instantly. The peas- 
ant repeated several times by himself: 

“Well, if it must be, it must be.” Then he 
said no more, but there was a desperate ex- 
pression in his eyes. 

Through the dingy lanes they finally, by 
numerous circuits, arrived at the harbor near 
the water’s edge. High bulwarks dotted with 
moorings extended to both sides along the 
sea, and among the boards and landings a 
great many persons moved around, engaged 
in difYerent ways. The girl hastily seated her- 
self on a pile of boards; she was unable to 


128 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


make another step. Lorenz, without uttering 
a word, sat down by her. 

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. 
A busy life pervades the whole place. The 
fog had given way to a friendly, mild sunshine, 
which offered its light and warmth to the two 
homeless and friendless persons. A light, 
soft breeze wafted across the water. There 
was brightness and bustle all around; the sun- 
light blinded their eyes, and the reposeful 
sheet of water lay in full extension before 
them. A motionless forest of ships’ masts and 
smokestacks rose against the sky. In the 
horizon one steamer rose after another^ bound 
for the port, or leaving for other shores. Their 
white sails bathed in the sunlight, like bright 
clouds which soared across the deep blue of 
the sky. Other vessels steered out into the 
open sea beyond, setting the water before 
them in foam. They passed away into the di- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


129 


rection where Lipince was, — the place which 
to our both unhappy friends meant the same 
as happiness, peace and abundant content. 
The girl was firmly convinced that she and her 
father must have committed some disgraceful, 
sinful deed, which called down upon their 
heads God’s vengeance. Why should other- 
wise He, the All Graceful, hide His face from 
both of them and leave them among strangers, 
in a state of complete helplessness? Did He 
not have the power to make them happy? So 
many vessels passed across the sea in different 
directions, not one of them would bring them 
home. And once more the girl’s thoughts re- 
verted to Lipince and to her beloved one. Did 
he yet think of her? 

In any event, she had not forgotten him. 
Only happiness makes people forgetful; when 
we must bear misfortune alone, our thoughts 

will cling to the dear ones far away, like ivy 

9 * * 


130 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


clings to the tree. But he? Had he not for- 
gotten his first love and sought out someone 
else? No wonder if this was the case, for it 
would be a shame to think of a being so 
wretched, and who possessed nothing at all in 
her own name; — a fettered, poor little thing, 
whom death alone could set free. 

Sick as she was, hunger did not pain her 
much, but a tired and weak feeling closed her 
eyelids, and her thin, pale face sank deeper and 
deeper. She dreamed of the dear ones at 
home; that she fell down into a great, void 
space; that she sank into the water, — far, far 
down, — when suddenly she roused herself, a 
little fresher, and the dream vanished. Near 
by was not her beloved one, but her father, 
and the water of which she had dreamed 
flowed rapidly through the New York harbor. 
The mild air of a spring day, drawing near its 
close, wafted across earth and sky. A sacred 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


131 


peace pervaded whole Nature. Everything 
about her was radiant with joy and life; — only 
she and the old man beside her were unhappy 
and forgotten by the whole world. Now 
the workmen prepared to return home; 
they alone among them all possessed no 
home. 

With increasing intensity old Lorenz was 
harassed by the pains of hunger. Mute and 
self-contained he remained by his child, se- 
cretly brooding over a terrible plan. His 
want of food gave him the appearance of a 
wild beast; outwardly he remained quiet and 
composed, though unnaturally so. While the 
shadows grew long, he remained immovable, 
did not once speak to tlie girl, and preserved 
the expression of desperate passivity. When 
night set in, he said, in a strange, unnatural • 
tone: 


“Marys, come with me.” 


132 


HER TRAGIC Fx\TE. 


''Where shall we go, father?” asked she, 
wearily. 

"Let us go and lie down on that platform 
near the water. Let us try to sleep.” 

They went. On account of the darkness it 
was necessary to walk with some caution, to 
avoid falling into the water. 

The American piers are built in a somewhat 
intricate manner. They form a sort of broad 
gallery, with a broad platform covered with a 
roof, at certain intervals. These platforms 
were deserted by this time, as all the workmen 
had returned home. 

The place was quite lonely. When they 
had reached the outer , edge, that close to the 
water, Lorenz again spoke: 

"Here we will lie down and sleep.” 

The girl dropped down upon the boards, 
perfectly exhausted. She was not disturbed 
by the swarms of mosquitoes which sur- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


133 


rounded her immediately, but fell asleep al- 
most instantly. 

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, she 
was roused by the sound of her father’s 
voice : 

“^Marys, wake up!” 

Ke spoke in a tone that awakened her im- 
mediately. 

'‘What do you want, father?” 

Through the dark and quiet of the night 
Lorenz Toporek’s voice sounded ghastly and 
fearful in its forced steadiness: 

"My daughter, you shall not die of hunger. 
You shall not ask for your bread at any one’s 
door, nor shall you sleep under the open sky. 
We are deserted by men; God has forsaken 
us; you are suffering from want. So Death 
shall receive you, and put an end to your suf- 
fering.” 

She was unable to see him in the dark. 


134 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


though her eyes had opened themselves wide 
in horror. 

'‘I will throw you in the water, my poor 
girl, and jump in myself, too. There is no sal- 
vation, no pity, for us. To-morrow you will 
feel no hunger; you will be better off than you 
are now.” 

No, she would not die. She was but eigh- 
teen years old; she loved life and was fright- 
ened at death, as youth always is. Her soul 
revolted against the thought that to-morrow 
she would be a corpse and sink into the dark- 
ness at the bottom of the sea, down among the 
monsters in the muddy sea-bed. For no price 
in the world! A terrible fright seized her, and 
her own father, who had pronounced her 
death-sentence, appeared like an evil spirit. 
In the meantime both his hands rested on her 
narrow shoulders, and he continued, in the 
same manner as before: 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


135 


‘‘Even if you call for help no one will hear 
you. I’ll push you down; it will be over in 
no time.” 

“I will not, father, I will not,” cried the girl. 
“Have you forgotten that God is above us! 
Father, dear, kind father, have mercy upon 
me! What have I done that you should kill 
me? I have not complained over our misfor- 
tune. Have I not sufYered patiently hunger 
and cold with you? Oh, father!” 

His breath came faster and faster; his hands 
held her like in an iron grip. She begged piti- 
fully for her life. 

“Have mercy, mercy, mercy! Am I not 
your owm child, your poor, sick child? Be- 
sides, I cannot live very long. I am afraid to 
die.” 

So she clung to him in agony, grasped his 
clothes and pressed her lips against the hands 
that meant to throw her into the sea. But he 


136 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


minded nothing. His equanimity had flashed 
out in desperation; he began to snort and to 
grind his teeth. There was a moment’s si- 
lence, a deep breath, and a creaking of the 
boards in the platform. The night had be- 
come pitch dark; there was no possibility of 
help, as they had chosen a place far away from 
the thoroughfares, where no one save the 
workmen would ordinarily come. 

‘‘Alercy, mercy!” cried the girl, in a pene- 
trating tone. 

He pulled her violently down to the edge of 
the pier and beat her head in order to subdue 
her cries. But to these no response came; — 
only a dog was barking far away. 

Marys felt that her resistance was on the 
point of giving out. Suddenly the ground dis- 
appeared beneath her feet; but her hands 
clung to her father’s body, though she had 
scarcely any power left. Her cries of help be- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


137 


came more and more faint; then he realized 
that she hung directly over the water. 

She had fallen from the platform, but 
grasped a board and thus escaped death — for 
the present. 

The peasant bent down and tried to push 
her hands off the board. 

A world of thoughts flashed through the 
girl’s head. Lipince, the public well, the 
ship, the storm, their wretchedness in New 
York. And she sees — she sees a gigantic 
ship, towering high above the pier, where a 
crowd of people are standing. Two arms are 
stretched out toward her. Heavenly father, * 
there stands her Jasko, reaching for her, and 
there — there, above the ship, — the likeness of 
the holy Virgin, in gleaming splendor. She 
pushes every one aside: '‘My Jasko, my Jas- 
ko!” Another moment, and she lifts her eyes 
toward the old man: 


138 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


“Father, there I see the mother of Christ, 
the mother of Christ!” 

The next second the same hands that would 
precipitate the girl into the sea pulled her up 
with superhuman power. Then she stood 
once more on the firm soil. Two arms folded 
her into their embrace, — the arms of her fath- 
er, not of her murderer. Her head rested up- 
on his breast. 

Waking from her swoon Marys found her- 
self resting quietly near her father. In spite 
of the dark she realized that his body was 
shaking, and that he sobbed from the bottom 
of his heart. 

“Marys,” said he, in a broken tone, “forgive 
me, my child.” 

The girl felt for his hand, pressed a kiss 
against it and whispered: 

“May God forgive you, as I forgive 
you.” 


HZR TRAGIC FATE. 


139 


A faint shimmer which rose in the east soon 
developed into a strong light. The moon 
rose, and in the light haze surrounding her 
Marys fancied she saw a number of little angel 
figures, which descended about her, circled 
about her. 

And she became gradually quiet, — quiet 
enough for a sounder sleep than she had en- 
joyed for a long time. 

Night passed. Dawn rose and shed its light 
over the water, the ships and their masts. Out 
of their faint outlines things evolved them- 
selves more and more plainly. 

With a prayer in his heart Lorenz bent over 
his child, fearful that the girl might have 
drawn her last breath. Her slim body lay 
there, without the slightest movement; there 
was a bluish shadow over her wax-like face; 
the eyes were closed. Again and again the 
old man tried to rouse her, finally he held his 


140 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


hand to her mouth and felt that she was still 
breathing. 

Her heart beat still, though weakly. He 
feared that she might be near dying 

If she did not wake when the sun rose, he 
thought, she must surely die. 

A flock of gulls began to circle about them; 
one even flew down near their resting place. 
A light breeze sprung up from the west, 
scattered the morning fog and carried down 
to them a pleasant stream of warm, soft 
air. 

The sun rose. Her first rays struck the 
highest points, the roof of the platform; then 
lowered themselves and spun a golden halo 
around the young face, pale as death, of the 
girl. They kissed her forehead and wound 
themselves around her. Her golden hair, un- 
tidy and dishevelled with moisture and with 
the nightly struggles, lay around her head like 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


141 


a frame, and imparted to her a trait of some- 
thing exquisitely innocent and angelic. 

A beautiful spring day rose above and 
around them. The sunshine grew warmer 
and warmer; the wind blew softly over the 
girl’s outstretched form on the planks. 

Lorenz. took off his coat and covered her 
with it, hoping that her life might yet be 
spared. 

Gradually a faint color mounted to her 
cheeks, and finally she opened her eyes. 

. The old man fell upon his knees, lifted his 
eyes toward the sky above, and a stream of 
tears rolled down over his cheeks. He now 
realized how dear she really was to him; the 
soul of his soul, a sanctified trust, above every- 
thing else in the world. 

She awoke, looking much fresher and 
healthier than the day before. The pure air 
which wafted across the harbor was infinitely 


143 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


healthier than the poisoned atmosphere of the 
narrow room to which she had been so long 
confined. She awoke to life’s reality, for 
scarcely had she opened her eyes when the 
appeal burst from her lips: 

‘‘Father, I am so hungry.” 

“Come, my daughter,” said he, “and let us 
walk along the water’s edge. Perhaps we 
may find something that will satisfy our hun- 
ger.” 

She arose without much difficulty, and they 
went. This day seemed destined to form an 
exception to all others, for they had walked 
but a few steps when Lorenz came across a 
bundle hidden somewhere in the structure of 
the pier. It contained bread, smoked meat 
and several boiled corn ears. 

This discovery was easily explained by the 
fact that a workman had left part of his lunch 
here, for the day following. This is custom- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


143 


ary here; but Lorenz and Marys viewed the 
matter still more simply. Who had placed 
this food directly where they would find it? 
They could but think of Him who considers 
the birds in the air and the flowers in the field. 

God, the Almighty ! 

So, saying their prayers, they sat down and 
ate what had been given to them by so won- 
derful means, whereupon they walked over in 
the direction of the larger docks. 

Both were strengthened and in better 
mood. Having reached the Custom House 
Building they turned down Broadway. As 
they were yet somewhat weak, it took them 
several hours to walk this way. They plod- 
ed on, hardly realizing where they went, and 
with no definite end in view; but Marys felt * 
that they must at any cost walk up the city. 
Numerous wagons, heavily loaded, passed 
them, wending their way toward the harbor. 


144 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


In Water Street an intense life and stir was 
going on. People rushed out of the houses, 
hastening on, pursuing their business. At a 
certain door stood a tall, elderly gentleman, 
with gray hair and beard, in the company of 
a young fellow. He looked at the peasants 
in their national costumes, and a trait of sur- 
prise and wonder passed over his face. Scrut- 
inizing their appearance, he allowed a smile to 
pass over his face. 

That in the great city of New York there 
should be a single human being who smiled 
kindly at them, was indeed a wonder, for 
which they were not prepared. 

But the old gentleman stepped up to them 
and said, in pure Polish: 

“Where did you people come from?” 

They came to a dead stop then and there. 
From the peasant’s face every drop of blood 
disappeared; he staggered, and refused for a 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


145 


moment to trust his own eyes and ears. But 
the girl quickly regained her equanimity. 
Dropping a courtesy before the old gentle- 
man she said: 

‘Trom the Province of Posen, sir, from 
Posen.’' 

‘'What are you doing here?” 

“We are on the point of being starved. W e 
suffer from want of bread and all other neces- 
sities.” 

She could say no more. Lorenz, however, 
fell upon his knees before the stranger, 
grasped the seam of his coat and kissed it as 
fervently as if he had taken possession of a 
portion of heaven itself. 

Here was a man, one of their own race; he 
would not let them die from hunger, or scorn 
their hopes, but help them on their way. 

The young man who stood by opened his 

eyes wide. People stopped and looked at the 
10 


146 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


Strange scene, where one man kneeled before 
another, kissing the hem of his garments. An 
unheard-of scene in America. 

Their curiosity seemed to bore the old gen- 
tleman, as he addressed them: ‘'Never mind 
this, gentlemen. Better go about your busi- 
ness.” Whereupon he turned to Lorenz and 
his daughter. 

“We cannot remain standing in the street,” 
said he. “Come with me.” 

He led the way to a restaurant in the neigh- 
borhood, ordered for himself and his followers 
a separate room and conducted them in. The 
young man followed. 

Once more they wanted to throw them- 
selves before his feet, but he motioned them to 
desist, and said, a trifle vexed: 

“You had better not do that. Are we not 
countrymen, children of the same soil?” 

Evidently the smoke of his cigar had drifted 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


147 


into his eyes, for he wiped them stealthily and 
said: 

“Are you hungry?” 

“We have had no food for two days, until 
this morning we found a few things in the har- 
bor.” 

“William,” said he to the young man, “let 
the people bring us something to eat.” 

Then he continued his examination: 

“Where do you live?” 

“Nowhere, your grace.” 

“Where did you sleep last night?” 

“On one of the platforms down by the sea.” 

“Were you thrown out of your house?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you no property except what you 
carry with you?’' 

“We have nothing else.” 

“Have you no money?” 


“No.” 


148 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


“What are you going to do?” 

“We do not know.” 

The old gentleman spoke in a rapid and, 
seemingly, vexed tone. Suddenly he turned 
to Marys, asking: 

“How old are you, child?” 

“By Mary’s Ascension I shall be eighteen.” 

“You have suffered enough by this time, 
have you not?” 

Instead of answering, she humbly fell before 
the feet of her deliverer. 

Once more the cigar smoke seemed to af- 
fect his eyes, but in this movement the vic- 
tuals, roast meat, potatoes, a mug of beer and 
other things, were brought in. He told them 
to sit down and eat, but they answered that in 
his presence they dared not do it; whereat he 
became angry and called them fools. But in 
spite of his impulsive manner they considered 
him an angel sent from heaven. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


149 


Their eating appeared to afford him gen- 
uine pleasure. When they had finished, he 
bid them relate under what circumstances they 
had emigrated, and what had befallen them 
since their arrival. Old Lorenz now gave a 
detailed account of their experience. He told 
all, not even omitting his own fault, — as if he 
was confessed. The stranger became angry 
and scolded, and when Lorenz arrived at 
the point where he made an attempt to 
take his daughter’s life, the old gentleman 
cried : 

'‘Ah, I could knock you down!” 

Addressing Marys, he, said: 

“Come here, child.” 

As she came up to him, somewhat embar- 
rassed, he took her head in both his hands and 
pressed a kiss against her forehead. • 

After a pause he said: 

“You have gone through a great deal of suf- 


150 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


fering. But the country is good, if one only 
knows how to help himself.” 

Lorenz looked at him in astonishment. This 
worthy and good man called America a good 
country. 

“Well, my old friend,” said he, “so it is.” 
And he smiled at the peasant’s expression of 
wonder. “A good country. When I came 
here, I had nothing; now my income is even 
abundant. You farmers should remain on 
your land, however, and not roam about the 
world. If you leave your old place, what will 
become of you? 

“There are no prospects for you here. It 
may be an easy matter to com.e here, but the 
return is more difficult.” 

For a while he remained silent, then, as if 
speaking to himself, he continued: 

“Forty years ago I arrived here, so one is 
apt to forget his native place. But sometimes 


I-IZR TRAGIC FATE. 


151 


we are seized by a great longing. William 
must go over and see the land where his fath- 
er’s cradle rocked. 

“William is my son,” said he, pointing to 
the young man. 

“You will bring back a handful of soil from 
home and place it in my grave, William?” 

“Yes, father,” answered he, in the English 
tongue. 

“You will place it right on my heart!” 

“Oh yes, father!” 

The old gentleman was moved, but checked 
his feelings and continued: 

“The boy comprehends the Polish language 
quite well, yet he prefers to speak English. 
Yes, whoever finds himself at home here, is 
lost to the old place, and so it must be. Wil- 
liam, go up to your sister’s house, and tell her 
we shall have some guests with us.” 

William hastened out. His father remained 


152 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


for a while mute and seemed to ponder over 
some problem. Finally he said: 

“Even if one might send you home, it costs 
a good deal, and you would have no property 
to live on, even if you did return. All you had 
is sold; you would come home as beggars. 
If this girl is sent out to earn her bread, hea- 
ven knows what may befall her. Now that 
you both are here, you might as well try to 
find some work. If you were to live in some 
country colony the chances are that the 
girl will be married before long. Then, 
if the young people come into posses- 
sion of something, they may want to return 
home.” 

“Did you hear of our colonies in this coun- 
try?” said he to Lorenz, in an abrupt manner. 

“No, your grace.” 

“For heaven’s sake, then, why did you emi- 
grate to a foreign country? In Chicago there 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


153 


are more than twenty thousand persons like 
you; in Milwaukee as many; in Detroit an- 
other great number. They work in factories; 
but the farmer feels best when working in the 
fields and stepping on his own soil. If you 
were to go to Illinois, it might be difficult for 
you to find some suitable piece of land. A 
New Posen has been founded in Nebraska, I 
learn; but that is far away, and so is Texas. 
The railroad fares to these places are high. 
Borowina would be the best place; besides, I 
can obtain for you a pass to that place. So 
you would not need to pay for the journey, 
but could use what money I gave you for buy- 
ing land.” 

Once more he relapsed into thoughtful- 
ness, then, in an ofl-hand manner he con- 
tinued: 

“Listen, my old friend! In Arkansas a new 
colony has been founded. The land is good. 


154 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


the climate fine, and the land is entirely new. 
There the Government will give you a hun- 
dred and sixty acres of land and pay your rail- 
road fare besides. There are no taxes — do 
you understand me? I shall give you what 
you need to make a beginning, and procure 
free passes for you and your daughter. You 
will proceed as far as Little Rock and drive in 
a wagon as far as your destination. There 
you will find other colonists, whom you can 
join in cultivating the soil. I shall furnish 
you with letters of introduction also. I mean 
to help you all I can, for we are sons of one 
country, we are brethren. I feel a thousand 
times more sorry for your child than for your- 
self, — understand? You must thank God that 
I found you. 

. “Listen to me, child,” said he to Marys. 
“Here is my card. Take it, and preserve it 
like a great treasure. If you should ever come 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


155 


into trouble; if you should ever find yourself 
alone and defenseless in the world, seek me. 
You are a good girl. If I should die, my son 
will protect you. Do not lose this card. Now 
follow me!” 

On the way he bought clothes for them and 
finally brought them to his daughter’s house, 
where they were kindly received. Every 
member of this family seemed kind and good, 
and William and Jenny, his sister, received 
them as old friends. William treated the girl 
as a lady, which often caused her considerable 
embarrassment. From time to time, in the 
evening, a number of ladies paid their visits at 
the house. All were beautifully dressed; their 
hair was arranged according to the latest 
fashion, and they approached the poor village 
child with much kindness, flocked about her, 
w^ondered over her beauty and her pale com- 
plexion, and were embarrassed, in their turn. 


156 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


when she knelt down and wanted to kiss their 
hands. The old gentleman went about the 
groups, muttering by himself, sometimes be- 
ing vexed, talking a mixture of English and 
Polish, discussing with Lorenz the conditions 
of their native country, reviewing old memor- 
ies. Sometimes he withdrew in order to con- 
ceal from the company his emotion. 

When retiring to rest the first night, Marys 
wept from the bottom of her heart. These 
people were kinder and better than any she 
had met before. No wonder, however, the 
old gentleman was born in Posen. 

In due time Lorenz and Marys were on 
their way to Little Rock. In his pocket the 
farmer carried a hundred dollars, at the 
thought of which he forgot everything else. 
Marys herself felt that God’s hand was once 
more over their heads. She now firmly be- 
lieved that He would help them in days to 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


157 


come, as He had helped them in their troubles 
thus far. Probably He would also bring to 
America her Jasko, and unite them and bring 
them back to Lipince! 

On their way they passed a number of cities 
and smaller towns. They looked quite differ- 
ent from New York. Here were woods and 
fields and small houses, shielded by green fol- 
iage. Large fields extended to all sides, and 
they were exactly like those of their old home. 
At the sight of all this old Lorenz felt his heart 
expand, so that he would almost call out a 
hearty greeting to the woods and the fields, 
where large and small herds of cows and sheep 
were grazing. Men were at work in the 
woods. Onward the train sped, further and 
further out into the wilderness. Houses and 
other habitations at length became scarce, and 
finally nothing was seen except the wide, deso- 
late prairie, where the wind played in the grass 


158 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


and shook the numberless wild flowers. Here 
and there a scant crop of brush was seen, the 
short branches waving to and fro. High 
above hung the eagle, scanning with his sharp 
eyes the deep grass. The train listlessly pur- 
sued its way, plunging, as it were, with all its 
might into the distant far away, where the 
horizon joined the prairie. Occasionally there 
were seen a number of hares or prairie wolves. 
Far and wide no house, no dwelling, not even 
the most primitive village. Only the stations, 
otherwise the same endless, blooming desert. 
Lorenz looked out upon it, shaking his head 
and wondering how people could allow so 
much land to lie there unused. 

One day and a night, too, had passed in this 
manner; but on the following day they ap- 
proached a forest of mighty trees. Numerous 
vines clung to the old stems, forming a brush 
that seemed almost impenetrable. Strange 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


159 


birds were occasionally seen in the green 
masses of foliage overhead. On seeing this 
wilderness, this strange, unknown country, 
Lorenz could not forbear turning toward 
Marys, saying: 

‘‘Marys!” 

“What is it, father?” 

“Do you see all this?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“And do you wonder?” 

“Yes, I do wonder.” 

Finally they arrived at a river larger than 
any they had ever seen before, and learned 
that this was the Mississippi. Late at night 
they arrived in Little Rock. 

From here they were to proceed as far as 
Borowina, their destination, where we take 
leave of them for the present. The second 
stage of their wanderings was now reached. 
The third was in the woods, where we shall 


160 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


again find them, sharing the toilsome life of 
the colonist. Was it destined to give them 
less sorrow, pain and misfortune than all that 
had preceded? 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


161 


CHAPTER III. 

What was Borowina? A settlement in be- 
ing. Judging from appearances, the founda- 
tion of this colony had been laid under the 
impression that if a name was found the place 
corresponding to it would soon find itself. At 
the outset ad newspapers printed in the Polish 
language, and even the American ones in Chi- 
cago, New York, Buffalo, Detroit and Mil- 
waukee, — all the places where Polanders were 
represented, and where Polish emigrants were 
found, — had explained in clear and convincing 
language that whoever among them was de- 
sirous of becoming wealthy, of preserving 
their health, of eating well, of living long and 
dying a peaceful death, might obtain his share 

in an earthly paradise named Borowina, by as- 
11 


HER TRAGip FATE. 

sisting in the colonization and development of 
the place. The notices contained information 
to the effect that the state of Arkansas, where 
Borowina was located, yet presented the ap- 
pearance of an uncultivated desert district, yet 
was the healthiest land under the sun. Al- 
though the town of Memphis, which had been 
built on the eastern border of the state, near 
the Alississippi river, might be designed a 
breeding place of yellow fever, the truth was 
that neither this nor any other fever was able 
to cross the great river. These diseases dread- 
ed the river for one reason among others, 
namely, that the Indians on the farther side, 
belonging to the tribe of the Choctaws, would 
fall upon them and scalp them without mercy. 
The fevers themselves quaked before the sight 
of a redskin. Consequently, the settlers at 
Borowina would live between the fevers in the 
eastern and the Indians in the western dis- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


ro{5 


tricts, on neutral soil, and for as much as 
Borowina would number, a thousand years 
hence, at least two million inhabitants, each 
acre of land, which was now offered for one 
and one-half dollars, would in time be valued 
something like one thousand dollars per 
square rod. 

To withstand such prospects and eulogies 
was no easy matter. In the case of such as 
were not quite pleased with the prospect of a 
too close proximity to the Choctaw Indians 
the assurance was given that this valiant tribe 
was filled with sympathy with the Polanders, 
so the most friendly relations only were to be 
expected. Otherwise it was a well known fact 
that wherever a railroad crosses the prairies 
and the woods, and telegraph poles, with their 
cross-like appearance, had been raised, these 
crosses would soon become monuments to the 
destruction of the Indians. Inasmuch as all 


1C4 


HZR TRAGIC FATE. 


the land in Borowina was owned by a railroad 
company, the total extinction of the Indians 
could be but a question of time. 

The land had really been secured by a rail- 
road company, which gave promise of a con- 
stant connection between the settlement and 
the outer world, as well as of an easy disposi- 
tion of products and a rapid devel#pment. 
The public notices had not mentioned, how- 
ever, that the railroad in question existed only 
in the minds of certain promoters, and that 
those very tracts of land, which the govern- 
ment had ceded to the railroad, were to yield 
the fund necessary to the construction of the 
road. A slight oversight like this is, however, 
easily pardoned in such an immense affair. 
With reference to Borowina it made only the 
slightest difference that the colony, instead of 
being situated close to a great railroad line, 
was located in the lone wilderness, where 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


165 


one could move about only with great dif- 
ficulty. 

This circumstance might lead to great trou- 
ble, but, after all, it was a matter dependent 
merely upon the development of the railroad 
itself. At any rate, the prospectus of this set- 
tlement should not be read too closely, but 
viewed in the light that advertisements of 
this character often grow at the cost of the 
fruit, so that it is somewhat difficult tc separ- 
ate the grains of truth from the chaff of 
phrases. So, if one separated all ^diumbug’’ 
from the truth contained in the notices of 
Borowina, enough alluring facts remained to 
testify that the colony was neither better nor 
worse than thousands of others that had been 
founded in a like manner. 

For many reasons the conditions on which 
the land was to be had appeared most promis- 
ing, consequently a large number of Polanders 


1G6 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


from all parts of the country contributed to 
the development of the new settlement: Mag- 
yars, Silesians, Galicians, former inhabitants 
of Posen and Lithuania; people from the fac- 
tories in Chicago and Milwaukee, who longed 
once more for the free life in the country, 
seized with great eagerness the opportunity of 
being removed from the smoke- and dust- 
laden atmosphere in the large cities and of 
gaining for themselves a free life in the exten- 
sive districts of Arkansas. 

Those to whom Texas seemed too hot, Min- 
nesota too cold, Michigan too moist and Illi- 
nois too barren, joined the rest, and several 
hundred persons, mostly men, but also women 
and children, started for Arkansas. The ap- 
pellation, “bloody Arkansas,” was not especi- 
ally horrifying to these colonists. The land 
really was swarming with rapacious Indians, 
outlaws and robbers; with wild squatters that 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


167 


preyed upon the woods and brought large 
amounts of wood away down the Red river; 
with numberless adventurers and vagabonds, 
who had fled from the gallows. Even if the 
western part of the state was in those days the 
scene of terrible fights between the redskins 
and the white hunters of the buffalo, — this 
could not be avoided, and against such dan- 
gers the colonists could guard themselves one 
way or other. When a Magyar is armed and 
surrounded by his own men, he will not eas- 
ily yield to violence, and anyone that might 
presume too much upon his rights, would 
soon learn that he can be neither bent nor 
broken. It is also a well known fact that the 
Magyars are very apt to hold together, and 
that one neighbor will always be ready to help 
another. 

The majority of the colonists assembled in 
Little Rock and Claresville, the nearest towns 


168 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


of importance near Borowina, which was situ- 
ated some twelve hours’ ride from either. Un- 
fortunately, the road ran through meadow- 
land, woods and places where stagnant water 
was abundant. Some persons who would not 
await the common start, had disappeared . 
without a trace. Later, the remaining settlers 
reached the place and pitched their tents in 
the woods. 

In truth, at their arrival they were disap- 
pointed at the appearance of the place. They 
had hoped for open land and some forest, but 
found that they were required to clear the 
primitive forest. Black oaks, redwood, light 
platanes and dark sycamores stood close to- 
gether, as a firm mass. This wilderness bore 
no promising appearance; the ground was 
covered with moss, and high up the tenacious 
vines spun their net around the trees, forming 
a living bridge, a dense infiltration almost en- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


16 D 


tirely impenetrable. It was not like at home, 
where one could look out among the tree- 
tops. He who ventured into the thicket 
would soon lose sight of the sky above, lose 
his way in the dark and expose himself to 
innumerable dangers. Some of the Magyars 
viewed the gigantic oaks with distrust and 
feared their hands and axes would not prevail 
against them. Of course it is pleasant enough 
to command the use of timber for one’s own 
house and for burning; to be protected against 
the cold and to make one’s own calculations; 
— but to clear a hundred and sixty acres of 
primitive forest without the help of others, 
pulling the deep roots out of the soil, and lit- 
tle by little make the land yield a profit, this 
would require years and years of one’s life. 

Yet, as there was no other choice, the set- 
tiers went to work at once, crossed themselves, 
seized their axes with a sigh and began to cut 


170 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


down the trees. Henceforth the click of the 
axe was the only sound heard in the forest, 
and sometimes it was even accompanied by a 
song of many voices. 

The colony was centered in an imposing 
square in the depth of the forest, where the 
town was to be located. A school and a 
church were planned to form the center of the 
settlement. It would require some time, how- 
ever, before these plans could be carried out, 
so at present the wagons must serve as houses, 
where the settlers arranged things as 
comfortably as circumstances would allow. 
The camp was well defended against attacks 
from without, and contained even a grazing 
place for cattle, sheep, horses and mules which 
were under the protection of young men well 
armed. The settlers slept in the wagons, or 
around the fires, wherever a clearing had been 
made. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


171 


Women and children remained in the day- 
time inside the limits of the camp, while the 
men were at work in the clearings. At night 
the cries of the wild beasts were heard in the 
surrounding woods, especially jaguars and 
wolves. The terrible gray bears, which were 
less afraid of the fires, would sometimes ap- 
proach the wagons quite close, therefore cries 
for help and the reports of guns were often 
heard in the night. Such of the settlers as had 
come from the wilderness of Texas, were 
mostly experienced hunters; they usually pro- 
vided the camp with fresh game, such as ante- 
lopes, deer and buffaloes. Others fed chiefly 
upon the provisions they had procured in Lit- 
tle Rock and Claresville, and which consisted 
chiefly in corn flour and salt meat. Of sheep, 
nearly every family had procured a number, 
which were successively killed for food. 

In the evening, when the great camp fires 


172 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


were started, the young people, instead of 
seeking at once their resting places, amused 
themselves with dances. Some one of their 
number, perhaps a violinist in former times, 
had brought his violin, and when its thin tones 
were lost in' the open air, the people accom- 
panied by tin cans and other queer instru- 
ments. The heavy work proceeded steadily, 
but slowly. First the cabins had to be built, 
and for this purpose timber must be procured 
with as little delay as possible. The redwood 
was quite easily worked, but it was scarcer 
than any other kind. A number of the settlers 
had pitched their canvas tents on their land; 
others, especially young men, who did not ask 
for a pillow under their heads at night, and 
who began to grow tired of the incessant work 
in the brush, began to study the possibility 
of cultivating the soil. For the first time 
the Arkansas air began to vibrate with the 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


173 


cry with which the oxen are driven forward. 

In general, it might be said that such a bur- 
den of work rested upon the settlers that they 
hardly knew where to begin. 

It was found that the Borowina settlers had 
bought the land of the railroad company in 
good faith. No one had ever set foot on it 
before, otherwise it would have been a diffi- 
cult matter to dispose of a primeval forest, 
since prairie land could be had at a much less 
figure. When the representatives of the rail- 
road company arrived, they were met by a 
delegation of settlers and proceeded at once to 
distribute the available area of land to the 
colonists individually; but difficulties arose, 
and before long the party quarreled, and in a 
few days the representatives left the settlement 
for the alleged purpose of procuring, in Clares- 
ville, the necessary leveling instruments. They 
never returned to the place. 


174 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


It was soon found that the settlers had pro- 
cured claims of unequal size. The worst of it 
all was, however, that no one knew where his 
claim was, or how it should be located. Nor 
did anyone know how the cultivation of this 
foreign soil was to be carried out. If the set- 
tlers had been Germans, they would have 
cleared the land by a united effort, so far as it 
was fit for cultivation, and afterward divided 
it into lots, or plats, of equal size, built huts, 
and left the perfection of each allotment for 
agricultural purposes to each individual set- 
tler. But every Polander had only his own 
land in view and cared nothing about the rest. 
Besides, each man was anxious that his house 
should be built as near as possible to the for- 
tified camp and the river. This occasioned 
much trouble, especially as one day the large 
wagon of a certain ^Tan Gruenmanski” ap- 
peared on the scene. Pan Gruenmanski was 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


175 


hitherto known among the Germans only as. 
Gruenmann; but in Borowina he deemed it 
necessary, for business reasons, to add a “ski” 
to his Christian name. His canvas-covered 
wagon bore a large sign on which was painted 
the word “Saloon,” and beneath this the le- 
gend: “Brandy, Whisky, Gin.” 

How it came to pass that this wagon arrived 
safely in the camp without having suffered 
any molest from the robbers or the Indians 
that haunted the dangerous road between 
Claresville and Borowina, was never known. 
How the dangerous redskins that swarmed 
the country in larger and smaller bands could 
refuse to take Mr. Gruenmann’s scalp, re- 
mained this gentleman’s own secret. The fact 
remained that he arrived safely and made ex- 
cellent business on the very first day after his 
arrival. Trouble and strife were abroad at 
once, and in the course of the next few days 


176 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


bloomed beautifully throughout the settle- 
ment. The more earnest objects of the ani- 
mated discussion at once allied themselves to 
a longing for the old home. Those settlers 
who had come from the northern states had 
much to say in favor of their former homes 
and against those in the south, of which Boro- 
Avina was the nearest example. There was 
developed a jargon composed of perverted 
Polish, with an admixture of English, partly 
pure, partly adapted. 

Among the colonists we find our friends 
Lorenz Toporek and Marys, his daughter. 
They had arrived safely in Borowina, Arkan- 
sas, and shared the fate of their brethren. At 
the outset they were, however, better situated 
than the rest. The primeval forest is a much 
better soil to a poor man than New York can 
ever be; besides, they were not altogether pen- 
niless. They possessed a wagon and some 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


177 

implements, which had be^n procured at rea- 
sonable rates at Claresville. Homesickness 
was their only affliction; but it was, too, a 
source of much suffering to them. Still, the 
hard work required of both did not permit of 
much reflection. Lorenz worked nearly all 
day in the woods, in order to gather as rap- 
idly as possible the necessary material for a 
log house. The girl prepared their meals, 
washed clothes in the river and busied herself 
from morning to night. In spite of her toil- 
some life the work in the open air soon ef- 
faced all traces of the sickness which resulted 
from her wretched life in New York. The 
fresh, cool air in the woods had a favorable 
effect upon her whole system. The hot sun 
burned her face until it assumed a golden red 
hue. The young men who had come to Boro- 
wina from nearly every state in the Union, 

and who were always ready, on the slightest 
12 


178 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


provocation, to assail one another, agreed in 
their wonder at the girl’s beauty, noted the 
soft, mild, even humble expression in her love- 
ly face, the light in her eyes and her golden 
hair. The girl’s beauty was a direct help to 
Lorenz. He had chosen for himself a certain 
strip of the forest, and no one contested his 
right of ownership, as all the young men^ sup- 
ported him. Many of them helped him in his 
work, and the old man realized quite readily 
in what direction the wind was blowing, in 
consequence whereof he chose not to discour- 
age any one. 

'‘My daughter is like a flower, like a verit- 
able princess,” said he. “Whoever appears to 
me the best lad in the settlement, will suc- 
ceed in winning her. I am not disposed to let 
any and all take her, for she is really the 
daughter of a good family. Anyone that 
pleases me well may take her; but she is not to 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


179 


be had by any vagabond who may call for 
her.” 

So, those who helped the old man were 
really working for their own cause. 

Old Lorenz succeeded almost better than 
anyone else, and he might even have had 
splendid prospects, if the colony, as such> 
had given promise of a successful future* 
But things becarne worse and worse, as time 
passed. Weeks came and went. Large piles 
of wood lay heaped around the camp; here 
and there an unfinished house was seen pop- 
ping out, and yet the work that had been 
done was but a child’s play compared to what 
must be carried out in time to come. The 
green walls of the primeval forest yielded but 
slowly before the axe. Those who had ven- 
tured into the depths of the woods declared 
that after all there was no end of the trees* 
There were terrible swamps and foul-smelling. 


180 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


Stagnant pools, and some even held that there 
were terrible monsters, ghosts and spirits hid- 
den in among the dense shrubbery. Big ser- 
pents and other equally horrible creatures 
inhabited the sylvan depths. Shrubs with 
fearful thorns impeded the steps of the travel- 
er, tore his clothes to shreds and blocked the 
way everywhere. ^ A boy from Chicago stated 
that he had seen even the Evil One himself, 
as he raised his gray, thick head out of one 
of the ponds and yelled so terribly that he, the 
boy, turned away and fled to the camp in mor- 
tal horror. The Texas colonists explained, 
however, that the apparition was nothing but 
a buffalo, but he refused to trust their word. 
These fantastic reports added to the natural 
superstition in the settlers. A few days after 
the supposed appearance of the devil, some of 
the strongest men went into the forest, but 
did not return. Some became quite ill, suf-. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


181 


fering pains in their back, in consequence of 
the hard work to which they resorted in order 
to gain headway against the stubborness of 
the forest; some were taken sick with fever. 
The strife arising on account of the distribu- 
tion of the lan5 led to actual fighting, and 
even to bloodshed. The cattle that had not 
been marked with the owner’s name were fre- 
quently taken up by others. At length the 
firm rows of wagons were dissolved ; each man 
wanted to live as far away from his neighbor 
as possible. So it became impossible to guard 
the animals as before; the sheep ran wild and 
were often lost in the woods. Still one thing 
became more and more clear to all, namely, 
that unless the new fields yielded as they 
should, food wotfld become scarce and actual 
want of life’s hardest necessitv stare into their 
faces. Little by little the men lost courage, 
and some even abandoned work altogether. 


182 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


They might have continued their efforts, if 
they had only known what was theirs and 
what belonged to their neighbors. The well- 
founded complaints on the part of the leaders 
grew louder and louder. The settlers com- 
plained that they were facing great misery, 
and that no effort would enable them to suc- 
ceed in this wilderness. From time to time a 
few that had succeeded in keeping their 
money, left the place for Claresville. But the 
majority, having no means whatever, and 
whose welfare was bound to the forest, 
could not improve their circumstances by 
taking leave of what they possessed. 
They could merely wring their hands in des- 
pair. 

The click of the axe had nearly died out in 
the forest, which seemed, in its majestic re- 
pose, to brave every effort on the part of the 
men. — “We may contrive to live here a few 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


183 


years/' said one peasant to another; “then 
there will be an end of it.” 

One evening Lorenz came up to his daugh- 
ter and said: 

“I foresee that this place, and all of us, are 
doomed to destruction.” 

“God’s will,” returned the girl. “Having 
provided for us thus far He will not leave us 
now.” 

She raised her blue eyes to the sky and 
seemed perfectly sure that nothing could 
harm them. Then a big hunter from Texas 
spoke up and said: 

“Nor will we leave you.” 

She thought there was one, only one, with 
whom she would care to walk through life, 
and that was her Jasko, in Lipince. He, how- 
ever, had not kept his promise of following 
her and protecting her against the world’s 
inclemencies. 


184 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


That Marys should not recognize the hope- 
less situation of the settlers, was hardly pos- 
sible; yet God had saved them from their 
hardest need, and her sufferings had chas- 
tened her soul so that nothing would shake 
or shatter her faith in God’s providence for 
good. 

She also thought that the old gentleman in 
New York, who had saved them out of their 
former wretchedness, and who had given her 
his card, would, in case it came to the worst, 
and they appealed to him, once more 
assist them. Had he not promised his as- 
sistance? 

The affairs in the colony, however, became 
worse and worse. A number of settlers ran 
away successively in the dead of night, and 
no one learned their fate. Finally old Lorenz 
became ill from sheer exhaustion. For two 
days he tried to withstand the attack; on the 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


185 


third morning he was unable to arise. The 
girl went into the woods and gathered 
enough moss to make a comfortable couch 
on a log-house wall that was all ready to be 
raised, made him as comfortable as possible 
and prepared some strengthening food for 
him. 

^‘Alarys,” whispered the peasant, ‘T feel 
death is drawing near. He is nearly through 
the forest. You will remain alone in the world 
when I am gone. God has punished my. 
great sins against you, — how I brought you 
across the ocean. Death will be hard on me.’’ 

‘'Father, ” returned the girl. “God would 
have punished me, unless I had remained by 
you.” 

“If I only did not have to leave you alone 
in the world; if my blessing could only fall 
upon your marriage, then death would not be 
so bitter. Marys, my child, take Orlik, the 


186 


irZR TRAGIC FATE. 


big hunter, for your husband; he is a good 
boy, and will not leave you unprotected.’’ 

Orlik, one of the Texas colonists, who 
heard this, fell upon his knees beside the old 
man’s couch. 

‘"Father,” cried he, ‘‘give us your blessing. 
I love your daughter better than my own life. 
I know the forest, and she will not be harmed, 
as long as she remains by me.” 

He rested his eyes on the girl’s beautiful 
face, but she threw herself at her father’s side 
and said: 

“Dear father, do not force me. I belong 
to him, who has once received my pledge, and 
to no one else.” 

“You will never belong to any other man 
than me,” cried Orlik, “or I shall go and kill 
him. You shall be mine, or that of nobody 
else. All will be destroyed here, and so will 
you, unless I save you.” 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


187 


Orlik had stated the truth. The settlement 
Avas on the point of dissolution. One week 
passed, and another. The provisions began 
to be exhausted, and many found themselves 
obliged to kill their working animals for food. 
The fever made more and more victims; the 
people now cursed, now cried to God for help. 
One Sunday they were all assembled to unite 
in a prayer for deliverance; from hundreds of 
mouths it sounded: ‘'Holy, Almighty God, 
our Father, have pity upon us!” Even the 
forest was silent during this prayer. As the 
voices died out, the old trees soared aloof 
anew, as if they meant to threaten the men 
who meant to conquer its power; as if it 
wanted to designate itself the king and mas- 
ter. 

Orlik alone maintained that they should re- 
main firm and do their best to conquer all 
obstacles. 


188 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


The people looked at the big hunter and 
were reassured once more. Such as had known 
him from Texas were loud in their praise of 
him, for even there he had been known wide- 
ly for his great strength and ability in using 
all kinds of weapons. He went out alone to 
hunt the grizzly bear. In San Antonio, where 
he had hitherto lived, it was well known that 
he often remained for weeks and months 
alone in the wilderness, yet returned home 
unmolested. The sun had burned his skin to 
such an extent that people had applied to him 
the name of “The Black Hunter.” It was 
even murmured that he had roamed about the 
Mexican borders as a highway robber; but 
this was untrue. Still he would sometimes re- 
turn to the camp with an Indian scalp, and 
only abandoned this on being threatened with 
excommunication by the priest. In Borowina 
he did mostly as he pleased. The woods fed 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


189 


and clothed him. When the settlers began to 
run away and to lose courage, he assumed the 
government of affairs and ordered everyone 
about according to his own will. This he 
could do all the more easily, as the people 
from Texas stood by him in all that he did. 
As he went into the woods shortly after the 
prayer meeting, the people felt instinctively 
that something would happen. 

The sun went down. High above the 
dark tops of sycamores there remained for 
a while the glimmer of the last rays. They 
finally faded out and disappeared. During 
the twilight a wind sprang up from the 
south. 

The night had already set in, when the set- 
tlers observed a singular, lurid light high 
above the trees. It grew more and more 
clear and soon shed its grewsome glimmer 
upon every object in view. 


190 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


‘The forest burns, the forest is afire!” cried 
the people all around. 

Immense flocks of birds passed above their 
heads with anxious cries. The cattle in the 
camp bellowed and wailed dismally, as they 
felt the approaching danger; dogs yelled; men 
and women ran about distracted, fearing that 
the fire bore directly down upon them. But 
the powerful south wind drove the flames in 
the opposite direction. Again and again a 
fresh blaze arose from new quarters. The 
flames met and time and again they bore 
down upon the defenseless camp in wild fury. 
Mighty sycamores fell down with a crash. 
Lurid tongues of fire shot in through the dry 
leaves on the ground under the trees. The 
whizzing and roaring of the flames, the crack- 
ing of the branches, the roar of the wind and 
the cries of the wild animals filled the air all 
about. High trees burned like gigantic 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


191 


torches, sank and fell. The outlines of burn- 
ing vines stood clear against the darkened 
background. The ruddy sky received an im- 
age of the immense ocean of fire, which made 
the night as light as day. At length the forest 
looked like a sea of fire which raised its waves 
against everything distant or near. 

Smoke, heat and the smell of burned wood 
filled the air. Although the settlers were ex- 
posed to no real danger they ran about, cry- 
ing out in a terrible fright, until the dark fig- 
ure of Orlik plunged out of the woods. His 
dark face was covered with soot and dirt. As 
the settlers flocked around him from all sides, 
he leaned on his musket and said, in an un- 
naturally quiet tone: 

“We shall now see the end of this forest. 
There is no more to clear away. I have 
burned it all off. There will be as much clear 
land around here as anyone will want. 


192 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


He went over to Marys and said to her: 

“You must now be mine, for it is I who 
burned the forest. No one here is stronger 
than I am.” 

The girl quaked beneath the fiery glance of 
the big hunter, and he seemed fearful to her. 
For the first time she thanked God that Jasko 
had remained in Lipince. 

The fire continued for a while, but finally 
disappeared. A gray, rainy day rose on the 
settlement, and some attempted to penetrate 
into the woods, but the heat drove them back. 
On the second day a dense fog covered every- 
thing far and near, developed into rain by 
nightfall and finally settled as a veritable del- 
uge. Smoke and fire had probably prevented 
the outbreak, for spring was well advanced, 
and a continuous fall of rain might be ex- 
pected. And besides, the stagnant pools and 
marshy places developed a disagreeable smell. 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


193 


The site of the camp was converted into a 
swamp. Many of the people, who had re- 
mained in this wet place a day and a night 
were taken sick. Once more some left the col- 
ony, intending to proceed to Claresville, but 
soon they returned stating that the river pas- 
sage was blocked, owing to the rise of the 
water above its normal level. The situation 
of the colonists was now a terrible one, for 
their food supply threatened to exhaust itself, 
and there was no other possibility of reaching 
Claresville in any other way than by crossing 
the river, so there could be brought no new 
supplies. Lorenz and his daughter had bet- 
ter prospects than the rest, for Black Orlik 
protected them above and before all others. 
Every morning he shot or caught some animal 
for them. He had made a tent of canvas, 
which protected the old man and his daugh- 
ter against the worst rain. They were almost 
13 


194 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


forced to accept his help, for he would hear 
no opposition; yet they grew more and more 
dependent upon him and felt all the more 
obliged to him, as he demanded no return for 
his services. Still, he claimed a right to keep 
the girl. 

“Am I then the only girl in the world 
objected Marys. “Go and seek someone else 
for your wife. You know well enough that 
I love another man.” 

But Orlik answered: 

“Even if I went from one end of the world 
to the other, I should find no one like you. 
To me you are the only one in the world, and 
mine you must be. What would be your fate, 
if your father died? You would be altogether 
left to me; you would be obliged to seek my 
help, and I would take you by force, but 
without doing you the least harm. You are 
mine, mine alone. Who dares contest my 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


195 


right? Whom should I fear. Let your Jasko 
come, — so much the better!” 

So far as Lorenz was concerned, Orlik was 
right in everything he said or did. The old 
man’s sickness developed more and more to- 
ward a fatal stage; in his fever phantasies he 
talked of his sms, and said that God would 
no more allow him to return to his beloved 
Lipince. Orlik’s promise of returning to Li- 
pince with Marys, if she would consent to mar- 
ry him, roused the girl’s terror, instead of her 
joy. She could not consent to return home 
a mere stranger to Jasko, rather would she 
die alone in the wilderness. 

A still greater calamity was, however, 
threatening the colony. 

The rain fell more and more heavy. One 
dark night, when Orlik had gone out hunting, 
a cry rose in different parts of the settlement: 
^The water rises! The water rises!” The 


196 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


people, roused from their sleep, saw through 
the dark a great, heaving sheet of water, which 
crept steadily toward the camp. From the 
directions of the river and of the half burned 
woods Vvas heard a rushing of water, which 
seemed to approach with fearful swiftness. 

A cry of horror went out from the camp. 
Women and children fled in wagons and ve- 
hicles of every description. The men who had 
but themselves to care for fled toward the 
western part of the protecting ramparts, 
which were higher than on the other sides. 
The water was not yet deep, but rose rapidly. 
The rush from the side where the forest was, 
or had been, grew more and more threaten- 
ing; cries^of terror and calls for help rent the 
air. Soon the few animals that had remained 
within the palings of the camp began to lose 
their foothold, and the position grew more 
and more threatening. The rain fell in tor- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


197 


rents and with increased fury from one min- 
ute to another. The distant rush approached 
more and more closely, the waves breaking 
through the camp and loosening all movable 
objects. The inundation was not the usual 
one which results from persistent rains, but 
had for its cause the swelling of the Arkan- 
sas river and its tributaries. It was a perfect 
unfettering of the elements, which caused 
death and destruction everywhere within the 
reach of wind and water. 

One wagon standing close to the forest 
ceded to the power of the water and was up- 
set. The heartrending cries of the women 
caused some of the men to glide down from 
their position on the rampart, but the water 
seized them before they realized the danger, 
and carried them away through the dark. The 
inmates of the other wagons fled to the tented 
roofs amidst the pelting rain. The dark grew 


198 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


more and more dense. Here and there a beam, 
a board, or the like, was seen protruding; to 
some of them a human being clung in frantic 
attempts of preserving his life. Here a hu- 
man body floated past, there a cow struggled 
against the flow of the water; over yonder a 
hand reached out for support, but- finding 
none. 

The rush of the water became more and 
more violent and soon deafened every sound 
from man or beast. One wagon tottered and 
sank after another; everything seemed 
doomed to destruction. 

In the meantime what had become of Lor- 
enz and Marys? — The wooden wall upon 
which the sick man had been laid saved him 
and his child from immediate danger. As the 
water rose higher and higher it glided out in 
the direction of the forest, circled around the 
camp and was finally driven in among the 


rr^iic -jtKAGIC fate. 


199 

trees, through darkness and night. The girl, 
wringing her hands in agony, kneeled by her 
father’s side and prayed aloud to God for 
help and guidance. The reply was the same 
endless roar and rush of the wet element 
driven onward by the relentless wind. The 
tent blew away, and even the raft that sup- 
ported them might at any time be driven in 
among the trees in such a manner that they 
were upset. At length it was anchored by a 
tree extending its branches far into all 
directions. From one of these branches 
sounded at the same moment a voice calling 
to Marys: 

^Take the gun and stand at the other side 
of the raft, so it will not be capsized when I 
jump over!” 

It was Orlik, who a moment later stood by 
Marys on the tottering raft. 

‘"Marys,” said he, “as I told you already, I 


200 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


shall not part from you. By God’s help I shall 
save you both from this danger.” 

He tore an axe, which always followed him, 
from his belt, cut off a common branch of the 
tree near by and made of it a rough oar, by 
means of which he set the raft afloat, where- 
upon he began to row. When they had with 
some difficulty reached the real bed of the 
river, their frail skiff was at once seized by the 
current and carried down the broad sheet of 
turbulent water at a furious rate. From time 
to time Orlik tried to’ stop the raft by a tree 
or a bank, but in vain; he soon was obliged to 
concentrate all his effort upon the task of 
keeping it out of the way of the many obsta- 
cles that always presented themselves. His 
strength seemed to grow, and in spite of dark- 
ness he always saw the dangers ahead. One 
hour passed after another. Everyone else 
would have surrendered to the strain, but he 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


201 


felt no weakness. By dawn they had trav- 
ersed the woody regions and reached open 
land, or, rather, opeii sea, for nothing was 
visible except the yellow waters that rushed 
along, moved by the strong wind and cur- 
rent. 

In the meantime the day grew brighter and 
brighter. Orlik, seeing no obstacle far or 
near, turned toward Marys, saying: 

^^Now you are mine, for I have saved you 
from death.” 

His head was uncovered; his sunburnt face 
bore witness of the strain he had undergone; 
his whole appearance expressed such indomi- 
table power that for the first time Marys dared 
not gainsay him. 

“Marys,” said the hunter, “my beloved!” 

“Where are we drifting?” asked she, desir- 
ing to turn his attention to something else. 

“I do not care, as long as I remain by you.” 


202 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


“Had you not better use the oar and try to 
reach land somewhere?” 

Orlik took the oar once more and made an 
attempt to alter their course. Old Lorenz, in 
the meantime, rested on his couch. Now 
shaken by the fever that raged in his blood, 
now lying back in the stupor of exhaustion, 
he grew weaker and weaker. His cup of suf- 
fering was full; the body could offer no fur- 
ther resistance. The great, dreamless sleep of 
death neared with quick steps. Towax'd noon 
he awoke and said: 

“My child, I shall not see the dawn of to- 
morrow. Oh, my daughter, would that I had 
never left Lipince and never brought you 
away from there. But God is merciful, and I 
have suffered so much that he will forgive my 
sins. Bury me wherever you can, and let Or- 
lik bring you to the gentleman in New York, 
who is so good, and who will have mercy upon 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


203 


you and send you back to Lipince. I shall 
never see Lipince again. Oh, God, be merci- 
ful and allow my soul to return to my native 
placer 

Once more the fever seized his body; he 
lost his conscience and became delirious. 

‘‘Oh, God’s holy Mother!” cried he, “unto 

thee do I commend my soul. Throw 

me not into the water, I am no dog.” 

Conscience returned once more, and he said 
in a pitiful voice: 

“Forgive me, my child, forgive me!” 

The girl kneeled by him, in wild grief, and 
Orlik used his oar, scarcely knowing where 
they went, for tears blinded his eyes. 

Toward evening the weather grew more 
calm. The setting sun looked out upon the 
immense range of water. No land was yet vis- 
ible anywhere. The peasant’s last hour had 
come. God had mercy upon him and p^" 


204 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


mitted him to pass away in peace. First he 
spoke with regret of Poland. “I have left 
Poland, Poland in the old world!” said he, and 
by degrees his imagination carried his spirit 
back to that beloved place. The old gentle- 
man in New York had enabled him to become 
free and to return home with his child. They 
are on the ocean; the steamer moves on, day 
and night, until he sees the harbor of Ham- 
burg, whence he set out on that fearful voy- 
age. He passes different cities, where the 
German language sounds in his ear; onward 
the train is speeding, onward to the spot of his 
beloved home. They approach nearer and 
nearer; a, great joy fills his whole being; a 
sweet, well-known air surrounds him once 
more. His poor old heart hammers within 
him with joy. Oh, God, there are the fields, 
there the forests, the houses and the church- 
steeples. There a peasant, with his lamb- 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


205 


skin's cap, walks behind the plow. He stretches 
out his arms: ''Neighbor, neighbor, listen!" 
— His voice fails him, but presently the coun- 
ty-seat comes into view, and thereupon Li- 
pince. He walks along the road with Marys, 
weeping. It is springtime, the air is full of 
May-bugs, and — is it not the sound of the vil- 
lage bells that is heard at a distance? Holy 
^Christ, that there should be so much joy for 
him, a sinful man! Now only this little hill, 
and there is the cross and the finger-post 
pointing toward Lipince. They no more walk, 
but fly across the well-known landmarks, the 
finger-post and the cross. And the peasant 
falls upon his knees, embracing the cross, cry- 
ing aloud for joy, touching with his lips the 
soil of his beloved home. 

Yes, there they are. — But on the raft lies 
the lifeless body, while the soul remains where 
there is peace and joy. 


zm 


HER tragic fate. 


In vain the girl calls aloud: “Father, dear 
father!” Poor child, — he will return to you 
no more; he would rather remain in Lip- 
ince. 

It is night once more. 

Orlik, suffering with hunger, was almost 
r.eady to drop his paddle. Marys kneeled by 
her dead father praying for him in a broken 
tone. Far and wide the same endless sheet of 
water. 

They appeared to have been seized by the 
strong current of the widened river, and were 
carried down the stream with great rapidity. 
It was impossible to guide the course of the 
raft. There might be whirlpools, too, which 
would be likely to turn the frail skiff around 
and around. So Orlik kept a close lookout, — 
when presently he cried: 

“By Christ, there is a light!” 

Marys looked in the direction to which he 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


207 


pointed, and she, too, saw a light that was 
reflected in the water. 

*^It is a ship from Claresville,” said Orlik. 
‘‘The Yankees have sent out a saving party, 
and they will take us aboard. Marys, I shall 
save you yet.’^ 

With a great effort he continued the 
work of steering the raft. The light drew 
nearer and nearer, and finally a large ves- 
sel became visible. It was yet far off, 
but came nearer and nearer. Yet, after a 
while Orlik noticed that it was farther 
off than at first. 

They had been seized by a current which 
carried them farther and farther away from the 
boat. Besides, the branch broke in Orlik^s 
hand, and so they were deprived of every 
means of guiding the course of the raft. The 
light became fainter and fainter. Presently 
their progress was stopped by a tree which 


208 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


caught the floating wall from underneath, and 
so they were unable to progress further. 

Both called for help, but the rush of the 
water deafened their voices. 

“I must fire the gun,” said Orlik. ''Per- 
haps they may hear that and see us.” 

But the shot made no sound, for the gun- 
powder had become wet. 

Orlik, growing desperate, threw himself 
down upon the raft and lay quiet for a while, 
like in a stupor. At length he arose and said: 

"Marys, I should have run away with any 
other girl, perhaps, and brought her away with 
me. So I wanted to do with you, too, but 
dared not do it, for I love you. I have roamed 
about the world like a wolf, and strong men 
have been afraid of me. It was for me to be 
held in check by you. If you cannot love me, 
death will be welcome. I shall save you, or 
die. But if I die, pray for me, dear, and 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


209 


weep over me! Marys, Marys, pray for me!’^ 
And before the girl realized what he meant, 
he had jumped into the water and begun to 
swim. For a while she could see how his 
strong arms cleaved the water. He was an 
excellent swimmer. But soon he disappeared 
before her eyes. He had set out in the direc- 
tion of the ship to seek help for her. The 
numerous currents played with him and car- 
ried him out of his course, now here, now 
there. In spite of all his efforts he proceeded 
but slowly. The yellow, muddy water, came 
into his eyes, but he raised his head and 
strained his eyes to keep the steamer in sight. 
One large wave carried him swiftly forward, 
another took him out of his course. His 
breath came more and more heavily; his feet 
were benumbed. He doubted whether he 
would be able to reach the ship, then the 

* sound of the girl’s voice sounded again in his 
14 


^10 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


ear, as she had called for help, and his arms re- 
gained their former strength. He might at 
any time be seized by a current that he did 
not know, but continued, in spite of all obsta- 
cles, his perilous plodding through the muddy 
water, and finally the ship’s lanterns seemed 
to draw nearer and nearer. The swimmer 
doubles his effort; the current threatens to 
draw him down, but he fights the waters in 
agony, until once more his power is exhaust- 
ed and he feels near sinking. A few more 
strokes, and he is dazed by faintness. He can- 
not see the lanterns, but struggles and strug- 
gles, and finally gathers himself enough to 
call for help. But the arms refuse their serv- 
ice; he can keep above water no longer. One 
wave after another rolls over and past him; 
he cannot see; he can hardly breathe; — then a 
sound of the swift strokes of oars reaches his 
ears. With one last effort he repeats his cry 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


^il 

for help, and it is heard. A boat is nearing 
rapidly. Orlik, however, sinks, and the strong 
undercurrent seizes him, carrying away his 
body to a moist, unknown grave. 

Marys, alone with her father’s body on the 
raft, looks anxiously toward the far-away 
light. It draws nearer and nearer, and the 
girl watches it, until a boat glides out of the 
dark, and she cries for help in frantic despair. 

“Hello, Smith,” said a voice, “I’ll be 
hanged if there isn’t somebody crying for help 
again!” 

A few minutes later she was grasped by 
strong hands and pulled over into the boat. 
But Orlik had disappeared forever. 

In two months Marys left the hospital at 
Little Rock. In the meantime, enough mon- 
ey had been gathered together to enable her 
to reach New York. Still, owing to her ignor- 

I 

ance of the world and the people surrounding 


212 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


her, she must pass part of the way on foot. 
There were many who pitied the weak-look- 
ing girl with the large, blue eyes, who looked 
like a shadow more than like a live being, 
and asked with tears for every small favor she 
needed. She realized, too, that circum- 
stances, and not mankind, had been the cause 
of her troubles. What should a poor Polish 
field flower like she — what should she do 
amidst the turmoil of American life? How 
could she support herself? The wheels of that 
gigantic machinery must tear her away and 
crush her, as wagon wheels crush the flowers 
in their track. 

But in spite of it all she reached her desti- 
nation. At length her thin hand reached for 
the bell of the house in Water street. New 
York, where her and her father’s old friend 
from Posen lived. — The door was opened. 


‘Ts Mr. Klotopolski at home?” 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


213 


“Who is he?’’ 

“An old gentleman, who She pro- 

duced the card. 

“He is dead.” 

“Dead! And his son?” 

“He is traveling abroad.” 

“And his daughter?” 

“Also traveling in Europe.” 

The door was closed. Marys dropped down 
upon the threshold and wiped the perspiration 
from her forehead. There she was once more 
in New York, helpless and friendless, without 
means of support, a prey of fate. 

Remain here? Never! She will go down to 
the harbor; she will seek the German steamers, 
throw herself before the feet of one captain or 
another, and beseech him to have pity on her 
and bring her back to’ Germany. From Ger- 
many she will beg her way home to Lipince. 
There her Jasko is living. Beside him she has 


214 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


not a single friend in the whole wide world, 
and, if he shall refuse to care for her, she will 
at least die near him. 

She found the way to the harbor and bent 
her back before the German captains. They 
would have been but too glad to bring her 
home, for she was pretty yet, and some rest 
was all she needed to regain her full strength 
of youth. Consequently no beseeching would 
avail. 

The girl sought a resting place among the 
piles of boards that lay scattered about in all 
directions near the water, close to the place 
where some time ago she had passed that ter- 
rible night in her father’s company, and where 
he had attempted to drown her. She ate the 
refuse she could find along the water’s edge. 
Happily it was summer and warm enough 
outside. 

Every morning she went to the German 


IIL-K I'RAuXC RATE. 


215 


docks and asked for a passage, but always in 
vain. But, with a peasant’s persistence she re- 
turned again and again. 

In the meantime her resistance was ex- 
hausted and she felt that unless she was taken 
aboard a ship before long she would die, as all 
who had interested themselves on her behalf 
had died before her. 

One day she dragged herself wearily along, 
as usual, thinking that very likely this would 
be the last time, as her fate might be decided 
on the day following, when all her remaining, 
power would give out. So she determined to 
ask no more, but steal aboard some vessel that 
was ready to sail for Europe and hide hersell 
in a dark corner. Then, when the ship was on 
the open sea they would not throw her into 
the water, — and even if they did, it would not 
matter much. If, at any rate, she must die, it 
was quite indifferent where it happened. At 


21G 


HER TRAGIC FATE. 


the gang-board of every vessel a strict sur- 
veillance is kept up, however, and so her first 
attempt was unsuccessful. 

Now she seats herself on the landing place 
and thinks the fever has seized her, for she 
smiles and murmurs to herself: 

‘‘I am a wealthy heiress, Jasko, but I have 
remained true to you. Do you not know me?’’ 

It was not the fever, however, that had pos- 
sessed the poor girl, but insanity. Hence- 
forth she walked about the docks every day, 
to seek and point out her Jasko. People be- 
gan to recognize her, and from time to time 
someone gave her a few cents. She thanked 
humbly and smiled like a child. In this man- 
ner two months passed. — One day she disap- 
peared forever. Only the newspapers stated 
that at the outer end of the harbor the body 
of a young girl had been found. Her name 
and her connections were unknown. 




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